The Shadow Proves The Sunshine
by Pamena
Summary: After a misunderstanding, Mrs. Lovett finds herself in Bedlam. It’s up to Mr. Todd and Toby to rescue her before she really does lose her mind.
1. They're Coming To Take Me Away

Disclaimer - The DVD, a Sweeney messenger bag and some mp3's are the extent of my ownage. The title of the story is the name of a fabulous Switchfoot song, so I don't own that either. Oh, and the summary is a quote from Nora Ephron.

Author's Note - I know most of you are waiting for my companion pieces to Passing Strange, but I have to get this thing out of my system first! Hopefully you'll like this and waiting won't be such a terrible thing. By the way, I just want to say thank you to you all for the amazing response I got for the last chapter of Passing Strange. You're all unbelievably supportive and I love you to bits. Speaking of love, this little endeavor would not have been possible without the love of my life, Robynne (Phantomfr33k24601).Haha Seriously though, she assisted SO majorly with this, helping me hammer out the details and telling me when something sucked so I could fix it. If not for her, this story probably never would have seen the light of day. Now, do me a favor and go read her new story In The Dark Beside you, because it's amazing and awesome and such an original concept. She's much better than me. So go! Right after you review, of course:D

Summary - Insane people are always sure that they are fine. It is only the sane people who are willing to admit that they are crazy.

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_The Shadow Proves The Sunshine_

Well past midnight, the kitchen of the pie shop on Fleet Street is filled with the clatter of pots and pans banging together and crashing to the floor with reckless abandon. Any wayward Londoner peering in the shop windows would see the place in absolute shambles. The floor is covered with bowls, bags of flour, jars of spices, various pots and pans, the tea kettle, bottles of alcohol, and cooking utensils including but not limited to the silverware. The cause of all of this chaos is one insignificant spider.

Bloke.

Crouched on her hands and knees on the floor, the top half of her body inside the kitchen cabinets, Mrs. Lovett mutters to herself as she holds a candle to the newly emptied space and peers into the darkened corners. This spider has been a pain in her side for nearly a week, and it is high time she rid herself of its increasingly maddening presence. However, the cabinets seem to be spotless. She sees no sign of anything, spider or otherwise.

She and Toby have been attempting and failing to kill their tireless opponent, a big black spider. It has gotten to be sort of a joke between them, and they have even gone so far as to name it. But this evening, when Bloke had scuttled across the kitchen table when she'd been sipping her tea, it had been the last straw for Mrs. Lovett.

Now engaged in an all out search party for the creature, she and Toby have torn the entire place upside down. In the parlor, there are cushions and books scattered everywhere. The laundry room is littered with clothes, both clean and unwashed. The bedrooms look like a burglar of some kind had ransacked them. And still the spider eludes capture.

"Mum! There 'e is!"

Toby's excited shout from behind her causes her to jump, the top of her head cracking against the roof of the cabinet with a _smack_. She drops the candle in her fright, and then scrambles to pick it back up, burning herself in the process. A muffled string of unladylike curses escaping her mouth, Mrs. Lovett slowly inches backward out of the cabinets, gingerly rubbing the top of her head as she blows out the candle and petulantly tosses it to the side. Sitting on her knees in the middle of the messy kitchen floor, she turns to see Toby looking at her with an expression that says he wants to appear concerned, but is finding it very difficult to do so. She can only imagine how she looks, covered in flour on the floor, sucking on her burnt finger and muttering grumpily to herself.

"You alright?" Toby asks, suppressing a grin.

Frowning at his amusement, Mrs. Lovett nods. "Where is 'e, lad?"

Toby inclines his head to the side and jerks his thumb behind him. "Crawlin' on top of the breadbox. I was goin' to kill 'im, but then you 'it your 'ead and - "

"And you were too distracted tryin' not to laugh at your dear ol' mum, eh?" Mrs. Lovett asks wryly, holding out her arms.

Toby looks abashed, taking her hands and pulling her to her feet. "Sorry, mum. T'wasn't funny."

Snorting to herself, Mrs. Lovett dusts herself off, wrinkling her nose. "Course it was, love. I looked right silly, I did."

"Well," Toby flounders, looking at the floor, hands behind his back. "Maybe a lit'le."

Snatching up her rolling pin, Mrs. Lovett ruffles Toby's hair as she passes him, creeping closer to the spot where Bloke had last been spotted. The breadbox and the space around it are bare of any sign of life, and Eleanor frowns in disappointment. Dropping her rolling pin arm to her side, she sighs. "Missed 'im."

"Sorry," Toby says, sounding pained. "I should 'ave - "

"Hush Toby," Mrs. Lovett glances at the boy with a soft smile. "No sense in beatin' yourself up over it. 'E's just a spider, love." Placing her rolling pin on the counter, she puts her hands on his shoulders and directs him toward the parlor. "Now, I think we should give up for tonight and start fresh in the mornin'."

Toby nods. "Sure." He gestures vaguely to the war-torn remnants of their living quarters. "But what about - "

"Don't worry about the mess," Mrs. Lovett interrupts. "We'll get to it later. Go to bed, it's awful late and you'll be of no use to me tomorrow if you're asleep on your feet." She gives him a gentle push. "Scoot."

"Alright," Toby mumbles sleepily, yawning as he trudges down the hall toward the parlor. "Night mum."

When he's gone, Nellie turns to survey the disaster they've made of the place. She shakes her head. All this because of one little spider. Determined to put an end to the little bleeder's pitiful life the following morning, Mrs. Lovett shuts herself up in her bedroom and falls into bed without bothering to undress.

_--_

It seems that the morning comes before she has time to even close her eyes. The banging of pots and pans coming from the kitchen down the hall greets her ears far too early for her liking. Knowing that Toby is out there trying to put their home together again after their forage the night before, Mrs. Lovett groans sleepily and rolls out of bed.

Stifling a yawn, she stumbles to her wardrobe, ready to begin the tiresome process of dressing for the day. Running her fingers through the tangled curls tumbling over her shoulders, she wonders why she goes through the trouble. It isn't as though she has anyone who truly appreciates all the effort she puts into looking presentable. She is fairly certain no one would notice if she decided to start flouncing about in her nightgown. And by no one, of course, she means Mr. Todd.

Frowning to herself, Eleanor sifts carefully through her wardrobe. Well who cares if he notices? Today, she wants to feel pretty, and it has nothing to do with that brooding, useless excuse of a man. Really, it doesn't. Mrs. Lovett nods once to herself, before selecting the gown she'd bought last week with her earnings.

The deep violet color of the gown against the creamy paleness of her skin makes her look almost luminescent, and while she isn't usually one for the color purple, she smiles a little to herself. She can dress up just because she feels like it, and it doesn't have to have anything to do with whether or not Mr. Todd will pay attention to her because of it.

Eyeing her reflection at her vanity, she stares mournfully at her hair. Really, there is only so much she can do with it. She is just about to begin pinning her mass of curls on top of her head as usual, when an idea strikes her, and humming a little to herself, she begins searching her bureau drawers determinedly.

Pinning some of her scarlet tresses away from her face with an old butterfly hairpin Albert had given her for their last anniversary, she leaves the rest falling around her shoulders and emerges from her bedroom to find Toby in the kitchen. He is standing on top of a chair to reach the top shelves, dutifully arranging her plates and glassware.

"Goodness, love," she laughs. "I was hopin' to get a lit'le of this done before you woke up. An' I certainly didn't want you doin' it all by yourself."

Toby shrugs. "S'alright mum. I just couldn't sleep knowin' everythin' was such a mess."

Never one to mind a little clutter, Eleanor doesn't quite understand Toby's point of view, but nods anyway. "Well why don't you take a bit of a break from all this cleanin' and 'ave some tea."

He jumps down from the chair. "Alright but - " Toby turns to face her since the first time she walked into the room and stops short, staring.

It takes her a moment to realize what has gotten into him, and when she does, she touches her hair self-consciously. "What? Is it too much?"

He shakes his head wordlessly. "N-no mum," he finally stutters. "You look right pretty, like a proper lady."

Stifling a laugh at his fumbled attempts at a compliment, Eleanor plants a motherly kiss on the boy's forehead. "Thank you, love. It's 'ard _not _to feel like a proper lady, with your ruddy charmin' observations. Now, why don't you find the cups and saucers in all this unsightly 'odgepodge?"

Toby nods, searching under all the wreckage he has yet to clean up and eventually locating the cups under a large mixing bowl, and the saucers under two bags of flour. "Cleaned the parlor and the laundry room already," he says, hopping onto a stool at the counter with the newly acquired dishes. "Put the dirty clothes in a pile and folded the clean ones. And since I couldn't tidy your room with you still sleepin' in it, I figured I'd start on the kitchen."

Mrs. Lovett nods absently, taking the tea kettle from the stove and bringing it to the counter. "I appreciate it, love, but you didn't 'ave to do that. I made the mess with you, and I planned on 'elpin' you clean it."

Toby smiles, watching her pour the hot water into his cup. "I know, but I figured you 'ad enough to do as it is and - where's the gin?" He asks abruptly.

"What do you want gin for?" Mrs. Lovett questions, watching him jump to his feet and begin rummaging through the disarray on the floor for a gin bottle. "You've got tea!"

Toby plucks a bottle of gin out from under a bag of potatoes with a triumphant grin. "Don't care much for tea without gin," he explains, pouring a generous amount into his tea cup and mixing his strange combination with a spoon.

Shaking her head, Nellie smiles affectionately. "What am I goin' to do with you, lad?"

They finish up their tea a little more quickly than usual, other things needing to be done on this particular morning. Toby sets their dirty dishes in the sink and begins his task of cleaning and organizing anew.

Eleanor turns to the cabinets, beginning to go about making breakfast for Mr. Todd. She doubts he will eat more than a bite or two, but she supposes it's the thought that counts. She would prefer that he eat only a few measly bites rather than nothing at all. The man is far too skinny for her liking.

Minutes later, with a bowl of sweet smelling soup and a plate of toast on a tray, Mrs. Lovett makes her way up the creaking staircase leading up to Sweeney Todd's tonsorial parlor. Through the dirt-smeared window, she can see him sitting in his chair, razor in hand as he stares blankly at the floor. Balancing his breakfast tray against her hip, Eleanor turns the door handle, not bothering to knock. She used to knock, but he never heard her over the sound of his own noisy thoughts, and she has since given up trying to be polite.

He doesn't look up when she breezes into the room with a cheery, "Breakfast, dear!"

Usually he will at least glance in her direction when she comes in, giving her a sneer for neglecting to knock, but today, he does not bother to acknowledge her presence. Instead, he wipes the edge of his razor on his coat sleeve and continues staring at the floor in brooding silence. Mrs. Lovett has a sneaking suspicion his pride is still hurting from their rather public disagreement the day before. Blushing even now as she thinks about her behavior, Nellie sets his tray on the table next to his chair and straightens, turning to look at him, hands on her hips. Apparently, they still aren't speaking. Or rather, _he _still refuses to speak _her_.

It had been a particularly frustrating day for Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney Todd's refusal to even pretend to listen to her complain about it had finally pushed her over the edge. Wincing, Mrs. Lovett clears her throat, hoping to garner his attention long enough to attempt an apology. She feels she had been perfectly within her rights to yell at him, but perhaps hitting him with her rolling pin had been pushing it a bit too far.

"Mr. T?" She begins tentatively. "About yesterday..." He doesn't show any sign of responding, but she pushes on anyway. "I wanted to apologize for - well, for my part in our little...disagreement."

She watches him stiffen at the mention of the day before and knows instantly that it is still a sore point for him. She needs to tread carefully.

"I didn't wanna to 'it you," she begins to reason, almost to herself. "You really brought it on yourself!" His mouth tightens, and she realizes this is not the best way to go about apologizing. "But I shouldn't 'ave 'done it. It was wrong of me."

His tense shoulders relax suddenly, and she nearly sighs with relief, knowing she is one step further away from being threatened or maimed. Part of her expects him to reply with an apology of his own, but he doesn't move. If not for the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, Mrs. Lovett would have likened him to a statue, or some great monument.

The silence is becoming oppressive, and rather put out that Mr. Todd isn't responding to her attempts to reconcile, Mrs. Lovett wrings her hands nervously and begins walking the floor, grasping for something else to say. Thinking back on the day before, it isn't difficult to come up with something. "I just feel like you never listen to me! I could swear sometimes you just tune me out till I go away!" The corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly at this, but she sees it and her jaw drops. "That _is _what you do, isn't it?"

Mr. Todd doesn't reply, but that small tug at his lips had said it all. She doesn't know why this offends her so much, she should be expecting this sort of thing from him. It isn't as if he ever acts like he is listening, or responds when he is, but to have him practically admit that he cares for nothing she has to say is a little depressing. A small part of her seaside dream dies every time he glares at her. Every dismissive grunt he gives her sends a bit of her fantasy crumbling around her feet.

"Of all the despicable things, Mr. T!" She exclaims, whirling away from him to face his dresser, littered with bottles of cologne and shaving cream. "After everythin' I do for you, coverin' up your murders, puttin' a roof over your useless 'ead, washin' the blood out of your shirts! And ya can't even listen to me when I speak to ya?"

Silence is her only answer, and she doesn't bother turning to face him, fiddling idly with a shaving brush. He is almost unusually tidy for a mass murderer. She remembers Benjamin always being such a perfectionist, and it gives her hope, knowing he has carried a small part of his former self away from the wreckage of his old life. It makes her want to believe there is some other trait of Ben's he may have decided to keep.

"Am I that bloody 'orrible that you can't stand to be in my presence any longer than necessary? Maybe you don't remember, but we used to get along quite well. Before. When you 'ad Lucy." She does look now, turning slowly on her heel to find his back ramrod straight and his jaw visibly clenched at the mention of his darling wife. "I guess that's what it all boils down to in the end, don't it? Lucy."

She considers just giving up on him, dragging him outside and taking him to the street corner his wife usually haunts, offering herself to anyone with coins in his pocket. See if he is so intent on brooding over her then. It would be so easy. But she won't let him see Lucy like that, she couldn't bear the look on his face when he realized what his wife had become. No matter how angry she is with him, he doesn't deserve that.

"She's gone, love," Mrs. Lovett whispers instead. "And no amount of you wishin' it to be otherwise is goin' to change that." She inches a little closer to him, hovering over his shoulder. "It doesn't mean your life 'as to stop, that everythin' 'as to lose its meanin'."

He blinks, and it's almost as if by mentioning Lucy and the prospect of moving on, she has tripped some invisible mechanism in him. One moment, he is calm and docile, only half listening to her, and the next, he turns his head to glare in her direction. "Get out."

She frowns. "Now Mr. T, don't go gettin' all defensive, love. I didn't mean anythin' by it - "

Teeth clenched, he repeats more firmly, "Get _out_."

Nellie puts a hand on her hip. "I'm tryin' to apologize, Mr. T. Ya could at least listen to - "

His eyes snap up to hers suddenly, and the words die in her throat. Those eyes of his are nearly black, and they never cease to render her breathless whenever he deems it worth his while to look into hers with them. "Apologize?" He questions menacingly, his voice deadly quiet. "For daring to mention my wife's name? Or for your childish outburst yesterday? For making a fool of yourself in front of half the residents of Fleet Street?"

It always knocks her off balance when he goes from quiet and brooding to violent and aggressive, and she stumbles over her words. "I-I just thought - "

"Thought what, Mrs. Lovett?" He snaps, jumping to his feet, his razor clenched tightly in one fist. Eleanor takes a cautious step back, but he advances on her anyway. "What did you think? Did you think I'd forget all about your appalling behavior yesterday afternoon?"

Continuing to stumble away from him, Mrs. Lovett cringes when her back thumps against the wall. His smirk is almost vicious in its intensity as they both seem to realize at the same time that he has her cornered, and she is his now, to do with what he will.

His face mere inches from hers, Mr. Todd pins her to the wall with one hand, and Nellie closes her eyes as she feels the familiar cold silver against her neck. Swallowing painfully, she feels his breath against his cheek as he speaks again. "I want to know what was going on in your addle-headed mind yesterday, Mrs. Lovett," he growls, "That would make you think I would let you get away with such behavior."

_Get away with? _He sounds like her father might have in such a situation, and Nellie is quite certain she is no longer in need of a father's disciplinary hand. She may love this man, but she is growing quite tired of him pushing her around and thinking he can threaten her into submission. He hadn't been nearly so belligerent yesterday, when she'd been wielding that rolling pin. She'd merely come up here to try and make things right between them, and he's holding a razor to her throat! She is fed up with him thinking he has any right to threaten her in her own home.

Eyes flashing open, she turns her head to meet his gaze, unafraid, and brings up her hand, taking Sweeney Todd's wrist and pushing it firmly away from her neck. Looking up into his darkened orbs, slightly wider than usual in his surprise, Mrs. Lovett huffs in annoyance.

"Mr. Todd, if you're goin' to kill me, I would prefer if you'd wait until after closin' time," she uses his befuddlement to her advantage, putting her hands on his chest and shoving him away from her. "Right now I've got a shop to open and pies to bake, so if you'll excuse me, love."

Rage in his eyes, Mr. Todd grabs her wrist as she tries to slip past him, roughly pulling her to him. "How dare you, you little - " As if he is looking at her for the first time, Mr. Todd pauses in his tirade to grace her with a baffled look. Leaning back as if to get a better look at her, he drinks in her appearance slowly, his eyes drifting casually over her bodice and up to the top of her head. Brow furrowed and his customary scowl in place, he asks, "What did you do to your hair?"

Surprised by his sudden change in mood, Eleanor can only stare at him for several moments. "I - I left it down, love." She gives him a hopeful smile. "You like it?"

Grumbling under his breath, Mr. Todd releases his hold on her wrist and turns away, sliding his razor back into its holster. Dropping down into his chair again, he pointedly ignores her.

Disappointed, but not surprised, and just happy to get out of the room with her neck still intact, Mrs. Lovett gives the barber one last glance as she slips out the door, shutting it behind her. Outside, she pauses, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her impertinence had nearly cost her that time, and she silently thanks Albert, God rest his soul, for the hair pin that had saved her.

Returning to the safe dankness of her shop, Nellie finds Toby putting away the last of the dishes. The kitchen looks spic and span, even better than it did before their impromptu raid. He turns when the bell above the door tinkles, signaling her entrance. "Saw Bloke again, mum."

She brightens at this, gathering her skirts in one hand and hurrying to Toby's side. "Did you catch 'im, love?"

Toby's face falls, and he drops his gaze to the dish towel in his hands, looking ashamed of himself. "No, 'e got away again. Thought 'e was a different spider at first, 'e got bloody big since last night, even!"

Mrs. Lovett frowns, not liking this news at all. She has a very strong feeling that the spider is gorging itself on pie crusts when she isn't looking, slowly growing larger until it is strong enough to eat her in her sleep. Inwardly puzzling over this spider with excessive resilience and strength, Mrs. Lovett gives Toby a smile and pats his cheek. "S'alright, love. We'll get the lit'le bugger one of these days, eh?"

Toby provides her with a lopsided grin. "Hopefully before 'e gets us, mum."

Laughing to herself, Eleanor turns to the dough waiting for her on the counter. Mornings are her favorite time in the pie shop, breakfast is slow for business, so she doesn't have to start traipsing up and down the stairs to the bakehouse until lunchtime.

The dough is lumpy beneath her fingers, and sticks to the netting of her fingerless gloves as she tries to beat it into submission. Letting her mind wander as her fingers work the dough, she considers what had taken place upstairs between herself and the barber.

Sometimes, she is only too willing to let Mr. Todd's tantrums run their natural course and leave him alone until his anger for the time being is drained. She knows that with all the animosity the poor man harbors inside, it isn't healthy to keep it all bottled up. So the occasional outburst is perfectly fine by her, but Mrs. Lovett is beginning to grow weary of having all that rage directed toward her.

It feels like she is always being threatened - for bringing him his meals, for touching him, sometimes even for speaking to him. The fact that she is no longer fearful and trembling when a razor is pressed to her neck is testament enough to her familiarity with Mr. Todd's violent nature. She had been sure that her brazen actions upstairs would cost her mightily, but he had surprised her by backing off. Mr. Todd never backs down.

She wants to be flattered that her appearance had caused him to give pause, considering how oblivious the man usually is to anything around him. Her Mr. Todd is not the most observant of men, bless him. But she doesn't really know what to think of what had transpired between them. He's so hard to read sometimes, and then at other times, she feels like she is the only one in the world who will ever understand him.

When will he wake up and realize that everything she does for him is because she adores him beyond even her own comprehension? He gets her out of bed every morning, drags her down to the bakehouse, pulls her through hours of waiting on tables. He makes her day just a little less gray, and doesn't even know he does it.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Lovett ponders how long this particular mood of his will last. Hopefully he'll be over his little tantrum by the time she closes shop. She doesn't want him taking her proposition seriously. _"Mr. Todd, if you're goin' to kill me, I would prefer if you'd wait until after closin' time."_

Punching the dough with a clenched fist, Eleanor gives a blustery sigh and mutters under her breath, "Bloody man is goin' to make me lose my bleedin' mind one of these days, I just know it."

The bell above the shop jingles merrily, and startled, Nellie looks up for the first time in nearly ten minutes. Toby has finished putting away the dishes, turned the sign inside the door to read 'Open' and is currently outside wiping down tables. Standing in the doorway are three middle-aged men. Two are dressed rather drably, with dirt and grime smeared across their pant legs and on their boots. They're tall and burly, with very intimidating features. They remind Nellie of gorillas in their able-bodied appearance. If she squints, she is sure she can see gun holsters strapped to their sides underneath their uniformed jackets.

They stand stiffly between the other man, who is more properly dressed in black pants and a long overcoat. He eyes Eleanor warily from his position just inside the door, taking off his hat to reveal a bald head. Looking around primly with his beady eyes, he begins tugging at the fingers of his gloves. "Mrs. Lovett, I presume?" He asks, and his voice is much louder, and stronger than she would have expected to come out of the mouth of such a scrawny looking man.

Blowing a stray curl away from her face and suddenly remembering why she always keeps it up to begin with, Mrs. Lovett smiles politely and rests her weight on her hands atop the counter. "That I am, sir. What can I do for you fine gentlemen this mornin'?" The sudden sound of footsteps overhead makes her glance upward, and she frowns at the ceiling, silently berating Mr. Todd for his ceaseless pacing. It does terrible things to her already frazzled nerves. Turning back to the three men, she finds them following her gaze to the ceiling, looking puzzled. "Pie?" She asks, drawing their attention back to her. "Ale? My charmin' company?" Winking good naturedly, she holds up an empty mug and waves it at them.

The scrawny man shakes his head slowly and takes a tentative step forward, the brawny men on either side of him shadowing his movements instantly. "No, thank you. I'm here on business, actually."

Intrigued, Mrs. Lovett raises an eyebrow. "Business?"

The man nods. "I've received complaints about a disturbance here yesterday afternoon. A woman making quite a racket and being physically abusive toward another person. Do you happen to know anything about that?"

Fully intent on feigning her ignorance, Eleanor opens her mouth to speak only to stop just as abruptly, something catching her attention out of the corner of her eye. There, scuttling across the counter just a few feet in front of her, is the spider. Her eyes widen, and the corners of her mouth quirk into a small grin. So far, all attempts to catch and kill her enemy has proved fruitless, but not this time. Slowly and stealthily inching her hand across the countertop, Eleanor reaches out with deft fingers for her rolling pin.

"Gotcha now, lit'le fellow," she breathes, completely oblivious to the men standing in front of her, watching anxiously.

Snatching up the rolling pin quickly, Mrs. Lovett raises it over her shoulder and brings it down with quick efficiency on the unsuspecting spider. It hits the counter with a resounding crack, and she expects to splatter his unsavory insides on the flour covered counter space, to once and for all put an end to this ridiculous game. Instead, Bloke scuttles quickly to the side, missing her rolling pin by mere centimeters, and darts behind a mixing bowl. Moving the bowl quickly, she scans the immediate area around it but finds no trace of her nemesis.

Swearing under her breath, she drops the rolling pin noisily onto the counter and brushes her hands off on her skirts. "Foiled again." She finally glances back up at the men standing in her shop, only to find them backed up against the door, wide eyed, the two more muscular men standing in front of the scrawny one, as though fearing for his safety.

Letting out a small laugh, Eleanor says, "Sorry 'bout that. Been trackin' that Bloke for nigh on eight days, now."

"W-what?" Asks the scrawny man, sounding breathless.

Waving him away, she says, "Never mind that. Now what was it you wanted?"

The man ignores her question, swatting at the protective hands of his beastly companions and taking a step forward. "This...bloke...Do you see him _now_?"

Eleanor gives him a funny look, but decides to ignore her customer's oddities. "Look, I've got to fetch a couple of things down in the bake'ouse, but why don't I 'ave my Toby set you three up with a couple of pies and a jug of ale?" Coming around the counter and stepping closer to the men, Mrs. Lovett can only frown in bemusement when they all step away from her as if she carries the plague. "Toby!"

She peers outside, trying to spot the boy, and doesn't notice the scrawny man mouth to his companions, 'Toby?' and give a slight, sad, shake of his head.

The boy isn't wiping tables anymore, and she figures he must have run off to the market to buy toffee with his tip money. Turning back to the three men watching her carefully, she smiles. "The lad seems to 'ave run off on me again. 'Ave a seat and I'll serve you."

The scrawny man peers outside the window, squinting out into the streets, eyes searching. "And how often do you see Toby?"

Reaching into the small oven behind the counter and pulling out a couple of pies, Mrs. Lovett frowns. "All the time, 'e's my son." She pauses, tilting her head to the side. "Well, not really my son. I don't 'ave any of my own children." Placing the pies on the counter and transferring them onto plates, Eleanor takes up the jug of ale and gets out three mugs. "My poor Albert died almost fourteen years ago."

At a table in the corner, the scrawny man is muttering to himself, "Making up a child to mother after the death of her son, Albert. How tragic."

Exasperated with this man and his friends, and their peculiar behavior, Eleanor sets down the mugs and puts a hand on her hip. "What did you say you were 'ere for?"

_--_

Sweeney Todd is a man with pride. He prides himself on his thriving business, his razors, that look in a man's eyes right when he realizes he will never leave the barber's chair alive. And he prides himself on being dominant over the petite, irritating baker who lives downstairs. Really, he might not find her so annoying if not for her ceaseless chatter. The insufferable woman never shuts up, and sometimes he wonders if she even hears what she is saying, or if she just spouts off whatever happens to be in her head at the moment, without thinking.

In all other areas, they are perfectly compatible. She is as close to without conscience as he could hope for, she is full of ingenious ideas like baking people into pies, she keeps his true identity and his less than honorable hobbies a secret, she makes a decent cup of tea...Yes, if she didn't feel the need to talk until his ears are numb, Mr. Todd might find Mrs. Lovett's company rather enjoyable.

Today especially, he had been in no mood for her incessant gabbing. Not after that horrid display downstairs yesterday. Her outburst then, and her impertinence just a few minutes ago had robbed him of any feeling of supremacy he might have had over her. In that moment, with his razor pressed against the soft ivory of her throat, she hadn't quivered with fright, her eyes hadn't widened in alarm. It's almost as if she had been bored, or immune to his show of dominance over her.

He doesn't like that thought at all. While he knows very well that he will not kill her, if just won't do for her to know that as well. If he doesn't have some sort of power over the woman, then what does he have? She has already shown that she is perfectly capable of holding her own with him in the kitchen yesterday, and he isn't particularly keen on having to deal with her in that state of rage ever again.

Shuddering in his chair at the memory, Todd jumps to his feet, beginning to pace the well-worn path in front of the large window of his shop. Grimacing at the floor, his mind wanders back to the day before and the rather painful memories that go along with it.

"_An I said to 'er, 'well dearie I can't really 'elp it that I bought the last of the coriander, now can I?' It's not like I purposefully went and bought 'em out so she couldn't 'ave any, y'know?"_

_At a table in the front of the shop, Sweeney Todd sits staring out at the faceless masses of London with a glass of gin in hand. Behind the counter, Mrs. Lovett is mixing some sort of concoction in a large bowl, hair pinned up, flour down the front of her dress. He is attempting to tune her out as she prattles on about the day she'd had at the market, but with the constant flow of gibberish coming out of her mouth, he can't help but catch a word or two every now and then. _

"_The man only 'ad two bottles to begin with, and I needed 'em both! And she got all _huffy_!" _

_Mrs. Lovett stops stirring the contents of the bowl to gesture wildly with the spoon, and if Sweeney isn't mistaken, the batter clinging to the spoon goes flying across the room at her erratic movements. It lands on the window he is staring out of, and he watches in disgust as it drips slowly down the glass. _

_She doesn't seem to notice, continuing with her story. "And then 'er 'usband came outta nowhere and started beratin' me on 'ow his wife needs coriander for 'is birthday cake, of all things! Can you believe that?"_

_Sensing that she is requiring him to speak now, Mr. Todd nods once and makes a noncommital noise in the back of his throat._

_Satisfied, Mrs. Lovett continues. "So I told 'im 'is wife could have a bottle of the coriander if 'e paid me for it, which I thought was very generous of me." She stops again, putting a hand to her hip and brushing a wayward curl away from her forehead. "And d'know what 'e _said_? 'E said all haughty-like, 'Well Mrs. Lovett, I s'pose you're in need of the money what with that barber and the orphan movin' in with ya. An' didn't I see that sailor boy there just the other day? What are you doin', runnin' a bloody brothel, now?' I swear I thought Toby was goin' to deck the blighter." She laughs, shaking her head and finally looking over at Sweeney, where he still sits, motionless, facing away from her. "If I 'adn't grabbed a 'old of 'is collar, I dare say 'e would 'ave."_

_Taking a deep breath now that her story is finished, Mrs. Lovett runs one digit along the spoon, gathering up the batter on the tip of her finger before bringing it to her mouth to taste. She watches as Sweeney continues to stare out the window, only moving to take another gulp of gin. She adds airily, "And then 'is wife decked me while Toby was preoccupied with holdin' 'er 'usband down and checkin' 'im for coins. I'm gonna 'ave the bruise on my cheek for a week at least."_

"_Hmm..." He says distractedly, not even bothering to turn around and look at her. _

_Sighing, Mrs. Lovett leans against the counter, dropping her spoon back into the bowl. "Mr. T, are you listenin' to me?"_

"_Of course."_

"_Then what did I just say?"_

_He doesn't flinch, continuing to study his half empty glass of gin as he answers distractedly, "Coriander."_

_Mrs. Lovett stamps her foot childishly, and he looks up, startled. "_No_, I bloody did not!"_

_Mr. Todd turns back to the table, unfazed. "You said coriander in that long-winded speech somewhere."_

_Glaring at him, Mrs. Lovett shoves the bowl aside and decides to take out her frustration on beating the pie dough instead. "Y'know it wouldn't kill you to listen to me every now and then. Or at least pay enough attention to repeat back key words when I ask you if you're listenin'." He doesn't respond, continuing his staring match with the wooden table in front of him. She rolls her eyes. "Mr. Todd?"_

_He blinks, glancing up at her as if suddenly becoming aware of his surroundings. "What?"_

_Fixing him with an irate glower, Mrs. Lovett grips her rolling pin tightly. "Ya weren't listenin' just now, were ya?"_

"_Of course," he says, watching her narrow her eyes at him. "You said...something about listening." Mouth set in a tight line, Mrs. Lovett stalks from behind the counter to his table. He can only stare as she reaches out and snatches his gin glass from his loose grip. Surprised but trying not to show it, Mr. Todd frowns up at her. "I was drinking that."_

"_Not anymore," she says breezily, downing the rest of the glass and taking it with her back to the kitchen, dropping in into the sink. "Considerin' it's my glass and my gin, it gives me the right to take it whenever I please. I bought it, and I 'ave a right to drink it. You, 'owever, are merely livin' 'ere on my 'ospitality. You _'ave_ no gin rights."_

_Mr. Todd narrows his eyes. "And what about the boy?"_

"_Toby 'elps out around the shop," Mrs. Lovett explains, tucking her rolling pin under her arm as she brings him some tea instead. "And 'e's reasonably polite, and listens to other people when they speak."_

_Mr. Todd only grunts in response, thinking to himself that if the only way to obtain alcohol is to listen to Mrs. Lovett's mindless prattling, he would much rather remain sober for the remainder of his miserable existence. The sound of Mrs. Lovett's voice begins ringing in his ears once more, but he tunes her out again. He has gotten quite good at listening to her when he wants, and closing his ears to her when he doesn't. He has become accustomed to her constant chatter during his time here, but he has never quite learned how to talk back. Being in exile for fifteen years has deprived him of any conversational skills he may have possessed. _

"_Mr Todd?" Mrs. Lovett taps her fingers against the table, looking annoyed. "D'ya 'ear me?"_

_He hears her, but he doesn't respond. It would take too much energy to lift his head and give a reply, and he figures that if she thinks he isn't listening, she'll eventually go away. Today, it seems, Mrs. Lovett is feeling feistier than usual. Instead of turning away like he expects her to, she snatches her rolling pin from under her arm and swats at Mr. Todd's shoulder. _

_The pin hits bone with a sickening crack, and Sweeney Todd jerks backwards in surprise. Her assault continues however, and he jumps from his seat in order to avoid any further beatings with her makeshift weapon. _

"_I've 'ad it with you and your bloody inability to care about anyone but yourself!" She shouts at him, moving with him as he attempts to get away from her. If he didn't hear her before, he definitely hears her now. The rolling pin smacks against his chest, and he bites back a string of curses."The world does not revolve and you and your bleedin' revenge!" Another swat, and the pin connects with the side of his head. _

"_Mrs. Lovett," he barks, dazed as he raises his arms to protect his skull from any killing blows. "Stop this right now!" _

_He has a feeling hitting him is something she has wanted to do for some time, and now that she's started, she can't seem to stop. Backing up, he makes for the door, all the while with her attempting to smack him senseless with her pin. Wrenching open the door as she repeatedly thwacks him anywhere she can reach, he stumbles out the door and makes for the staircase to his shop. _

_People on the sidewalk have stopped to watch them, looking on curiously as Mrs. Lovett gets in one last good hit to his back before he makes it to the top of the stairs. He looks back down on her, standing at the bottom of the stairs, rolling pin in hand, breathing heavily, cheeks flushed. Sweeney Todd shouts for all of Flee Street to hear, "_You_ are a bloody lunatic, woman!"_

_Glowering at him, Mrs. Lovett calls up the stairs in return, "Come back when you've learned 'ow to 'ave a decent conversation!" _

_The door to his shop slamming shut is her only reply. _

Shaken back to the present by his own enraged growl, Sweeney Todd smashes his fist against the wall in his fury. Bits of plaster crumble from the ceiling to the floor at the impact, but he pays it little mind. All of Fleet Street had witnessed their little disagreement, and he is not one for that sort of attention. His head is still pounding from that blasted wooden torture instrument's beating! And even after all that, the woman had the nerve to come up here and try to apologize to him with _soup_? And then to push him away from her? How dare she!

He'd been ready to throttle her for her disrespectful actions when he'd finally looked at her, _really _looked at her, for the first time since she walked into his shop. He hadn't realized her hair was that long. He has vague, fuzzy memories of a much younger Mrs. Lovett with long, red spirals bouncing around her face, but he is so used to seeing her hair piled on top of her head like a rat's nest that he had forgotten what it used to look like. It had thrown him, that's all. Otherwise, he couldn't care in the slightest what she did with her hair. She could chop it all off and become a sailor as far as he is concerned.

Although he happens to think that when she pins her hair up, it mirrors her personality perfectly. Practical, chaotic and charming, in an odd sort of way. Not that he notices such things. He has much more important matters to dwell on than the way Mrs. Lovett styles her hair.

And he most certainly hadn't payed any mind to that purple gown she'd been prancing about in. Not really a light purple though, more of a violet that brought out the darker specks in her hazel eyes. Growling to himself, Sweeney turns angrily away from the window and marches to his dresser. Snatching up the photo of his Lucy, he stares hard at it, willing himself to think of yellow hair and pink lace, willing Mrs. Lovett and her infernal dress to leave his mind alone.

He is jarred prematurely from his determined musings by some sort of commotion outside. Hearing the clamor of loud voices, the stomping of footsteps, and somewhere amidst it all, the sound of Mrs. Lovett's voice raised in alarm, Todd drops the frame to his dresser and strides purposefully to the door, intent on telling the woman and her customers to keep it down.

Yanking the door open, Mr. Todd is startled to find a large crowd of people outside the pie shop, with two hulking men attempting to drag a struggling Mrs. Lovett into a waiting carriage. A skinny man in a long overcoat is standing by and watching the proceedings calmly, even smiling a little when one burly man has to restrain Toby from attacking the other in the middle of shoving Mrs. Lovett into the carriage.

Kicking and screaming, she manages to land a couple of punches to her swearing kidnaper, and even stomps on one booted foot with her heel. "Let me go, you soddin' bastards!" Mrs. Lovett sounds positively panicked. "I am _not _crazy!" She puts up a good fight, but the petite baker is lifted from the ground and hauled into the coach by her angered and bruised assailant.

A million things going through his mind, and most of them having to do with their unsavory business being found out, Sweeney takes the stairs two and three at a time, heart in his throat. He arrives on the scene just as the man keeping a firm hold on Toby finally lets him go, shoving him to the ground and striding to the carriage to climb in after the other man and Mrs. Lovett. Making it to Toby's side as the boy angrily wipes the dirt from his pants, Mr. Todd watches helplessly as the carriage door slams shut.

"Mum! Stupid blighters!" Toby shouts tearfully after them. "Where are you taking 'er?!"

The skinny man pays the boy no mind, climbing into the box seat. Mrs. Lovett is still shouting as he takes up the reigns. The uproar in the streets has reached an all-time high, and over the din of voices, Sweeney roughly grabs Toby by the front of his shirt, nearly lifting him off his feet, and growls, "What is all this?"

Through a haze of furious tears, Toby says, "I don't know, sir. I just got back from the market and they were draggin' 'er outta the shop! All's they said was somethin' 'bout 'er bein' unstable an' takin' 'er away to rest!" He wipes at his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. "Where're they takin' 'er Mr. T?"

Letting go of the front of his shirt but grabbing onto the back of his collar so that the boy won't run off after the carriage as it starts off down the cobblestone lane at breakneck speed, Mr. Todd scowls after it. Voice grave, he says, "That was the warden from the asylum, boy. They're taking her to Bedlam."

* * *


	2. Where Madness Begins

_The Shadow Proves The Sunshine_

"This is a mistake!" Mrs. Lovett shrieks, still kicking and screaming as the same two burly guards shove her through the tall, creaking double doors of the asylum. "I don't belong in 'ere with all these loonies! I'm not insane, I can prove it!"

The warden, Mr. Fogg, shakes his head somberly, watching her valiant struggles against her captors. She rears back and manages to land a swift kick to the shin to one of them with her heeled boot, making the man grunt, wincing in pain as he tightens his already crushing grip on her arm. The other guard smirks, seeming content now that his friend has an injury as well. Mrs. Lovett had managed to sock him in the eye in the carriage. It is red and swollen now, but Eleanor is sure his left eye will be a nice shade of purple come morning.

Mr. Fogg pays no mind to their pettiness, training his eyes on Mrs. Lovett. "Every man, woman or child brought into my facilities always attests vehemently to their sanity, but sooner or later..." He breaks off, sending a smarmy grin her way. "They all prove themselves wrong." Gesturing around him vaguely, he casts his eyes to the ceiling and sighs, as if drinking in the dementia. "Just listen, my dear. The screams of mad men and women."

Frowning, Mrs. Lovett can't help but notice now that he has pointed it out, that the only sound she can discern in the ancient building is screaming. It isn't frightened shouts of horror, but more like a low keening that speaks of lost faith and hopelessness. The madness is palpable, like a chill in the air.

Shivering, Mrs. Lovett takes in her surroundings, trying to block out the eerie way the voices of the prisoners carry through the asylum's thick, grimy brick walls. Despite it being early afternoon, the interior is dark and dank, as if the isolation of night is a permanent fixture here. The air feels moist, and Mrs. Lovett wants to wrap her arms around herself to ward off the cold. However, the gesture is impossible with the two guards still keeping a snug hold on her upper arms.

Making one last, half-hearted struggle against their grip, Mrs. Lovett finally surrenders to their strength, knowing that for the moment, escape is impossible. Mr. Fogg smiles at her visible defeat, and it widens marginally when she glares at him in return. Their silent exchange is interrupted when, over the screams Nellie is already becoming accustomed to, the sound of footsteps echoes down the dark passageway ahead of them. Seeming to materialize out of nowhere is a tall and slender gentleman, well-dressed in an overcoat and top hat, swinging a purely frivolous cane at his side. His features are strong and noble, but his continuously smug expression ruins what attractiveness he may have possessed. He flashes a self-satisfied smirk that makes Nellie take half a step back, bumping into the guards still standing behind her.

"Ah, Mr. Taylor," Mr. Fogg beams at him, stepping away from Nellie and beckoning the gentleman to a room, dimly lit with candles, on the far right.

The guards follow, seeming unsure of what to do with their latest prisoner without Mr. Fogg's guidance, and they drag Eleanor with them. She goes willingly, taking everything in as they shove her across the bare, cavernous room, her heels clicking on the stone floor as she tries to plot her escape. The windows are high, far too high for any human to reach, and far too small for anyone to climb through. Besides the front doors, it is the only other way out she sees. She bites her lip, knowing it will never do. She will just have to keep her eyes open for something more suitable.

The guards hover with her in the doorway of what looks to be Mr. Fogg's office, and she peers inside curiously, watching as Mr. Taylor stands over a heavy oak desk, holding out a handful of shillings for the man to take. Mr. Fogg is too distracted to notice, jotting something down hurriedly in a worn, leather bound book. When he is through, he opens a drawer in his desk, places it carefully inside, and locks it with a small key that he immediately puts back into his coat pocket. Finally looking up, he sees the proffered coins and takes them, smiling. "Thank you for your business, Mr. Taylor."

Mr. Taylor's returning grin makes Nellie uneasy. "Of course. You can count on my continued patronage so long as you keep providing such beautiful young ladies." He turns swiftly to head out the door and be on his way, but his eyes fall on Mrs. Lovett, and he stops in his tracks, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth. "Why, Mr. Fogg. You've been holding out on me." Stepping closer, he reaches out a confident hand to run it along the contour of Eleanor's jaw, ignoring her enraged scowl as she struggles more forcefully against the guards hold on her.

Mr. Fogg hastily steps forward, waving his hands. "Oh, no sir. She's a new arrival, just came in this morning."

Nodding, his green eyes wistful, Mr. Taylor moves his hand from Eleanor's jaw to her vibrant red curls, stroking one absently. "Yes, well...I shall be back soon, Mr. Fogg. I assure you."

Glowering at him for his obvious gandering, Mrs. Lovett says sharply, "Oi, you want to keep them 'ands, you best take 'em off me."

She is watching too closely the visible tightening of his mouth to pay much attention to his hand until he moves it swiftly from her hair to strike her harshly across the cheek. Head jerking to the side with the force of his palm against her face, Mrs. Lovett's eyes fill up from the sting, and she grits her teeth.

Mr. Taylor watches disinterestedly as she roughly shoves her curls away from her face and straightens, glaring at him despite the red mark on her cheek. "You would do better to teach your patients manners, warden."

Mr. Fogg looks insulted, but nods anyway, pasting a grin on his face. "Of course, good sir." Mr. Taylor turns to leave and the warden shouts after him, "See you next week!" As the door slams shut behind the visitor, Mr. Fogg turns his attention back to his guards and snaps, "Well, what are you waiting for? The redhead room!"

Jumping into action, the guards practically drag Nellie out of the room, and down several dark passageways lit by dimly burning torches on the walls. She follows them willingly enough, cheek still smarting and her mind still reeling from the shock of being physically struck. Even Mr. Todd, with all of his rage, has never laid a hand on her in anger. Perhaps the occasional razor against her throat, but that's different, she knows he'd never hurt her with it, no matter how much he threatens her.

The guards lead her down a narrow corridor, past doors with small barred windows. Hands reach out through the bars as they pass, stretching toward them as if to ask for help. Incoherent babbling and pleading reaches her ears, and Mrs. Lovett cringes away from the outstretched arms, horrified. The wailing and screaming only becomes louder the further she is lead into the asylum, and Nellie wonders if she will ever hear another sound again. Even if she manages to get out of this hell hole, she isn't sure she will ever be able to forget the screams.

Her stomach turns as she contemplates all the horrible things that could be happening to these people behind closed doors that would cause them to shriek in such a way. She has heard ghastly stories about the asylum, and what is done to the inmates unfortunate enough to have been committed. Stories of violent beatings, of the doctors hired by the warden to practice their strange experiments, and much worse.

Lost in her own chilling thoughts, Mrs. Lovett doesn't notice that they have stopped outside of a door just like all the others among the labyrinth of hallways, until she hears one of the guards slide the skeleton key into the lock and bark orders at the women inside the room to stay back. The guard still holding her reaches around to the back of her head and roughly pulls out the butterfly pin holding her hair back, jerking her head backwards in the process. Rubbing the back of her sore head, Mrs. Lovett watches as he pockets the pin in his grubby jacket.

"Thanks poppet." He smiles toothily. "The wife'll love this lil' trinket."

Mrs. Lovett only has time to open her mouth in outrage before the other guard hastily grabs her wrist and hurls her unceremoniously through the open door in front of them. As he slams it shut behind her, Eleanor raises her head and calls out, "Give that back you detestable bastard! My Albert gave it to me, 'e did!"

Sprawled in a heap on the floor, Mrs. Lovett listens to their faint chuckling from the other side of the door, and doesn't move until she hears their booted footsteps fading away into the distance. Sitting up slowly, she glances around her surroundings warily. Pushing disheveled curls from her face now that there is nothing to keep them from falling into her eyes, Mrs. Lovett finds that her impromptu entrance has garnered the attention of her cellmates.

Several pairs of eyes stare back at her, at least thirty, but probably more, all squeezed into this tiny room. The girls before her are huddled together on tiny, dirty cots, shivering. They are sickly pale, and so underfed that Mrs. Lovett is afraid their brittle bones will snap in two at the slightest exertion. They all have different shades of red hair, grimy and unwashed, falling into stringy pieces around their haggard faces.

She notices as she peers around the ill-lit room, that they all have the same dark circles under their eyes, and the same look of common madness, as though they are all suffering from their own personal hell - all different, and yet in the end, all exactly the same.

The silence in the room is making her uncomfortable, so Mrs. Lovett tentatively stands up, brushing herself off and glancing around the room. Besides all the girls, and the cots that cannot possibly house them all, there is only straw on the floor, covering the stones, and the small barred window high overhead that lets in the cold.

Seeing no immediate means of escape, and fuming that her own temper has gotten her here, Mrs. Lovett huffs and places a hand on her hip. "Must be some way out of 'ere," she mutters to herself, looking furtively around.

A soft, dry chuckle reaches her ears and Mrs. Lovett glances around before spotting the girl in the corner, staring at her with a mad looking grin on her face. Her hair is very short and choppy, and Eleanor can only deduce that the wigmaker has already come for her locks of hair. Rocking back and forth, her thin arms locked tightly around her knees, the girl says in a hoarse voice, "There ain't no escape." She draws in a ragged breath. "Once you're in, you never get out."

Pursing her lips, Nellie sniffs at her. "I don't need your negativity, love." The girl has a point though, she has to admit. There seems to be no obvious means of escape. The place is like a fortress, impenetrable from inside and out. For the time being, she can only bide her time, waiting for the opportune moment.

Perhaps she won't even have to break out on her own; Mr. Todd had to have seen her being carried off, and if he hadn't then Toby surely would have told him by now. Maybe her barber is already working on a way to rescue her from this terrible place. She can only hope Mr. Todd has a plan, because she most certainly doesn't. Leaning against the cold stone wall behind her, Mrs. Lovett crosses her arms over her chest, trying not to think about how filthy the stone must be.

Less distracted now than when she had first been shoved so ruthlessly into the room, Mrs. Lovett looks more thoroughly around her. She can see now that some of the girls are actually chained and shackled to the wall, unable to move more than a couple of feet, and some of them can barely move at all. She wonders briefly if those chained are the more violent cases. Realizing that she is standing right next to one of the chained inmates, Mrs. Lovett hurriedly pushes away from the wall and stands in the middle of the room, looking around. The girls seem to have lost interest in her unexpected arrival, and she assumes this sort of thing happens at least once a day.

Deciding she might as well have a seat while she waits for rescue, either by her own doing or Mr. Todd's, Eleanor begins carefully picking her way through the crowded room, weaving in and out of groups of girls huddled together. Catching sight of a bare spot on a stone bench built into the wall in the far corner of the room, Mrs. Lovett hastily makes her way to it, feeling much safer as she sits down, leaning as far as she can into the corner and away from everyone else, wishing she could just melt into the wall and disappear.

Leaning further into the wall, Eleanor realizes with confusion that there is a strange draft against the side of her body pressed into the stone. Turning to peer curiously next to her, she is surprised to find a considerable hole in the otherwise sturdy wall. It begins nearly level with her head - she only has to stoop a couple of inches to take a peek inside - and ends just beneath her chest. Reaching out tentatively, she slides her hand through the hole, disappointed to find that while both of her hands and arms fit through just perfectly, the hole isn't good for much else. Experimentally poking at the crumbling brick, Mrs. Lovett is pleased when it gives way just slightly beneath her touch, obviously fragile and ready to crumble beneath her hands if she so desires. Perhaps if she works slowly at it, she can make a hole big enough to fit through without the warden or anyone else noticing.

However, this plan is put to rest when Eleanor peers through the hole and realizes that it looks in on the room full of blondes next door. It is an exact replica of the room she is already in. There is no way of escape through there, and she would merely be relocating herself from one cell to the next. The girls in the blonde room appear to be in much the same shape as the redheads, skinny and sickly looking, most of them mumbling to themselves or staring at the rats scuttling across the floor. Paranoid, Mrs. Lovett glances back into her own room, spots a rodent hovering near, and instantly brings her legs up to her chest. She wraps her arms around her knees and scrunches her nose up in disgust. She can handle cockroaches just fine, but she absolutely loathes rats, filthy little buggers.

Turning back to the hole in the wall, just to snoop, a certain blonde in particular catches Mrs. Lovett's eye. She is young, and thin, almost waif-like, but there is an aristocratic air about her that none of the other prisoners have. Squinting, Eleanor leans closer toward the hole and nearly gasps in shock.

On the other side of the wall, sitting just a few feet away from her, is Johanna Barker.

_---_

"They ain't good people, Mr. T! That place is a livin' 'ell, we 'ave to get 'er out of there!"

At first, as he'd watched Mrs. Lovett being taken away by the warden of Bedlam, Mr. Todd had been at a total loss for what to do. And now, sitting at a table in the pie shop, listening to Toby's frantic pacing, he is still trying to come to grips with the situation. His mind is oddly blank. No plan is forming, and he cannot even muster up the energy it would take to think of taking a razor to the damnable warden's scrawny neck.

In times like these, he likes to have a glass of gin to settle his nerves and help him think. He'd almost barked at Mrs. Lovett to fix him a drink before he'd realized she'd been taken, and was the reason he needed a drink in the first place. So for the first time since he'd moved in, he'd fixed himself a glass of gin and sat at a table in the pie shop to think.

The fact that no plan seems to be forthcoming is worrying enough, for he feels helpless in a way he hasn't felt in a very long time. Sweeney Todd does _not _feel helpless, it just isn't done. He is a man of action, when he wants something, he finds a way to get it at any and all costs, and nothing will stand in his way. Staring contemplatively at the razor lying on the worn table, hand wrapped tightly around his gin glass, Todd tries to think of something, _anything_, that can be done but Toby's panicked voice is too loud in his ears for any helpful thoughts to make themselves known.

Turning to glare at the boy for his tearful rant, Mr. Todd finds Toby diligently pacing the length of the shop, his hands behind his back. He has never been good with crying children, and he is in the middle of contemplating how to tell the boy to shut it without making him burst into tears, when Toby continues speaking.

"I've 'eard terrible things 'bout that place, sir," he says, voice higher than usual in his distress. "They torture 'em! Experiment on 'em and the like. It's inhumane!" Toby sniffles, wiping his face on his coat sleeve. "I bet they don't even feed 'em!"

Mr. Todd straightens at this, setting down his glass with a loud clunk and taking up his razor. _Feed them? _Food. The pies. He has to destroy the evidence. No doubt Mrs. Lovett's rather spectacular performance has attracted unwanted attention to the pie shop, and maybe even his own establishment. Who's to say the authorities won't come poking around, with all of the rumors that are already spreading through Fleet Street.

Even before the coach had completely disappeared, people had been whispering their own personal stories and encounters with the eccentric baker, and how they had always known there was something a little off about her. Even in the course of an hour, sitting here at the window while people milled aimlessly around the outside of the pie shop, still hoping to see a bit of excitement, Sweeney has unwillingly heard several theories regarding Mrs. Lovett's recent incarceration. Some of them are a little too close to the truth for his comfort.

Rising quickly, Mr. Todd's chair scrapes loudly against the floor, startling Toby into halting in his frenetic fit. The boy looks between the barber and the razor clenched tightly in his hand, taking a timid step back, as though expecting a good lashing for carrying on in such a way.

"Stay here," Todd says gruffly, doubting that Mrs. Lovett would want the boy to see the bakehouse. He'll be damned if he has to listen to her complain about it after she's out of that madhouse.

Toby shuffles uncomfortably, putting on a brave face. "With all due respect sir, if you're plannin' on rescuin' Mrs. Lovett, I want to be involved. I won't just sit 'ere and wait while you - "

Mr. Todd glares, and Toby's mouth closes immediately. "I'm going to the bakehouse, and you are not to follow me."

Toby nods mutely. "Yes, sir."

When he finds himself standing at the bottom of the steps to the bakehouse, Mr. Todd grimaces. The stench of burning flesh and decay is overwhelming. Hoping to ignore the stale air, he slowly walks further into the room and immediately spots the pile of bodies beneath the trap door that Mrs. Lovett has yet to deal with. A glance at the meat grinder tells him it is full, and in another corner is a pile of bones, flies swarming around the drying carnage.

Mr. Todd decides to deal with the bodies first. It seems a downright shame to waste perfectly good meat, but he can't very well leave the bodies of his customers lying around and he doubts Mrs. Lovett will be back to chop them up before they start to decompose. It is something to do anyway, he cannot stand simply sitting around, doing nothing. And this is an action to take, however small it might be.

Making his way over to the mangled heap of his former customers, Mr. Todd grabs one of the heavier looking fellows by the wrists, intending to drag him to the oven and shove him inside. He balks at the extra weight, barely moving an inch with the man. Scowling, the barber gives a harsh tug and his victim slides across the floor with slow reluctance.

This process takes a while, even though he is no longer the skinny and weak Benjamin Barker, and he has to wonder how Mrs. Lovett has managed to do this every day. The woman is by no means strong enough to lug all of these grown men to that table in the back of the room, and then lift them onto it to be hacked into pieces. How had she done it and why hadn't she ever said anything? She'd never complained about it, so he'd assumed it wasn't too difficult a task. How like her to suffer in silence.

A very strange sensation overcomes him then, and he furrows his brow as he tries to understand what it is. It is a feeling he usually only associates with Lucy and his Johanna, the feeling of missing someone. He supposes it has more to do with all the work his landlady does for him, than anything else. Besides washing his shirts, and cooking his meals, she gets rid of his evidence. He cannot continue his dastardly business without her, which means if Judge Turpin decides to come for a shave while Mrs. Lovett is otherwise detained, Mr. Todd will be forced to let the judge walk away unharmed or risk being caught and executed. Or worse, sent back to Australia.

Gritting his teeth against the thought, Mr. Todd lifts the next body to toss into the oven, and continues the repetitive process, letting it consume all other thoughts. The smell of searing flesh becomes stronger; he tries to hold his breath when he can, and breathe through his mouth when he cannot. By the time he finishes burning all five bodies, the combination of lugging the weight across the room and the heat coming from the oven has rendered him breathless and sweating. He is averse to admit any sort of admiration for Mrs. Lovett, but he grudgingly confesses to himself that he has a newfound appreciation for the petite baker and the amount of work she does down here all by herself.

Mr. Todd begins to dispose of the meat in the grinder, determining that as soon as this is finished, he's going to pour himself another drink and come up with a way to get his partner-in-crime from her prison. Without her, he has no purpose, no way to exact his revenge.

When the meat is gone, he tosses the bones in the oven as well, watching it all burn with a small sense of satisfaction. The fire crackles and spits, and the horrid combination of smells rises from the oven with renewed vigor, but Sweeney Todd is now immune to the smell, and hardly notices, too intent on his own thoughts. When he is absolutely sure that there is nothing else incriminating left in the bakehouse, Mr. Todd wipes the sweat from his brow and starts back up the stairs to the pie shop, still no closer to a solution to saving Mrs. Lovett from the asylum.

He realizes with a sudden sense of alarm that he needs Mrs. Lovett's shrewdness, her practicality. Mr. Todd has never been one for planning, only doing. When given a task, he will do it to the best of his ability, and better than anyone else, but he doesn't have the head for the systematics of plotting. That had been Mrs. Lovett's area of expertise, and he is finding himself in need of one of her cunning plans.

He mentally damns her for letting her temper get away with her and forcing him to spring her from Bedlam in the first place but refuses to admit his own responsibility for his landlady's misfortunes. Mr. Todd reaches the top of the stairs to find Toby right where he'd left him, wearing a path in the floor with his incessant pacing.

When the boy hears Mr. Todd's approaching footsteps, he whirls around to face him with a crazed look in his eyes, and the bewildered barber stops in his tracks. "They got diseases in there! What if she gets sick? What if they 'urt 'er? They're awful violent in there, Mr. T!" The boy has obviously had time to think of every possible thing that could go wrong during Mrs. Lovett's stay in Bedlam, and he sucks in a large gulp of air before continuing. "What if they forget to feed 'er, or cut off all 'er hair? Mum 'as pretty 'air, Mr. Todd! They'll want to take it, they will!" His eyes widen suddenly in alarm. "M-Mr. Todd? Is madness contagious?!"

Still panting from his exertion down in the bakehouse, and annoyed at the boy he has never really liked, Mr. Todd turns on Toby and snarls, "Boy, if you don't shut - "

"Mr. Todd!"

The familiar voice interrupts Sweeney's tirade before it has begun, and he and Toby turn to watch through the shop windows as Anthony Hope dashes up the stairs to his barbershop. They wait in silence for Anthony to discover the room is empty before hurrying back the way he'd come. They don't have to wait long. Only a few seconds later, footsteps sound on the wooden steps, and Anthony bursts into the pie shop, out of breath and panting.

"Mr. Todd!" He exclaims, putting his hands on his knees and bending over to catch his breath. "I have terrible news, indeed! I ran all the way here!"

Livid now that the sailor has interrupted him before he could give the orphan a good lashing, Sweeney merely stares at him. "We have our own troubles at the moment, Anthony. So if you'd be so kind as to - "

"It's Johanna!" Anthony protests, looking at the older man with pleading eyes.

Mr. Todd pauses, fists clenched. If it had been anyone but Johanna...Cursing his weakness for his own daughter, he practically growls, "Well what is it?"

Anthony doesn't appear to notice his reluctance, straightening and regarding the barber with wide eyes. "He's had her locked in a madhouse, we have to rescue her!"

It is barely perceptible to anyone else, but Todd's left eyes twitches slightly at these words, and he has to stop himself from giving the boy a derisive snort. "Bloody epidemic," he grumbles sourly to himself, his voice barely a whisper.

"Mr. Todd?" Anthony questions, looking confused.

Fingers moving to massage his temple, he gives a tired sigh. "It seems, Mr. Hope, that we have a common problem."

This doesn't seem to be enough information for Anthony, and his brow furrows, his rather feminine features, not quite those of a man yet, are marred by his confusion. "I don't understand."

Turning from him, Mr. Todd moves deliberately to the table he'd occupied earlier and picks up the bottle of gin. "They came early this morning for Mrs. Lovett as well." Bringing the bottle to his lips, he takes a generous swig, still not looking at either of the other occupants of the room.

Anthony stares at him, mouth agape. "B-but why? I've only met her once, but Mrs. Lovett seems perfectly sane." He pauses, shrugging. "Well, perhaps a little - "

"Oi, watch your mouth," Toby snaps, speaking up for the first time since the sailor arrived.

Sweeney had almost forgotten his presence. Turning to glance at the boy, he sees a fiercely dark look on his young face as he glowers at Anthony, silently daring him to say one word against the baker. Ignoring him, Mr. Todd says, "It's none of your concern why. It only matters that she's there, and so is Johanna."

At the mention of the girl's name, Anthony's face crumples. "All hope is lost," he laments mournfully. "Bedlam is a fortress, what can we do?"

Taking another swig of his gin, Mr. Todd tries to put himself inside Mrs. Lovett's head, wondering how she would handle this situation, were their roles reversed. It is the only way he is going to get some semblance of advice from her. He hadn't realized just how much he had come to depend on her until now.

_Think like Mrs. Lovett...Think like Mrs. Lovett...._

He frowns, glad to know the baker will never have any knowledge of the thoughts he's having now. She would probably find it greatly amusing, him trying to get inside her head. He can see her now, that knowing smile hidden behind pursed lips. It's an expression he sees often on her face, whenever he decides to really look at her. If he had a shilling for every time he's seen that smile directed at him...

_Of course_. Every week, once a week, visitors are allowed to pay a shilling to come inside the asylum and gawk at the prisoners. It's a cruel, time-honored tradition, where the filth of London is allowed to look in on its less sane inhabitants and laugh at them, to jeer and name call, to poke sticks through the bars at the lunatics within. It's the perfect time to slip into the asylum, in the midst of all the chaos, and free Mrs. Lovett and his Johanna from their prison.

There are a few problems concerning this plan, however. Several, actually. Mr. Todd's eyes flicker toward the window, watching London's citizens stroll casually through the streets. The next visitation day is in three days, plenty of time to flesh out those details.

Slowly turning on his heel to look at the two younger boys, watching him intently, Mr. Todd tries to give them a smile, but he is so out of practice that it comes off more as a grimace. "Either of you know how to pick a lock?"

* * *

A/N - Firstly, Robynne is the best beta in the whole wide world and she's writing an amazing story called In The Dark Beside You. Go read it and let her know what you think! Secondly, thank you all so much for your reviews. It really is wonderful to hear from you all again, I've missed replying to reviews and getting your different opinions on things. So thank you muchly for the feedback.

ricenchopstix - I'm glad you liked it, and I appreciate you reviewing even from your phone:D And thanks for favoriting!

Thyme - LOL, Singing 'we all deserve to die' while killing a spider is just sadistic. I like it. You use a paper towel? I find that too thin, it creeps me out so I usually opt for a shoe of some sort. A rolling pin is probably the best method. Thanks for reviewing, I'm happy to hear from you again!

Mr. Toad - Yeah, Sweeney has magical powers - all he has to do is say something and it comes to I'm glad you enjoyed it, thanks for reviewing!


	3. Quickly Dispatched to a Lunatic Asylum

_The Shadow Proves The Sunshine_

She'd know those eyes anywhere. The rest of Johanna Barker's features belong to her mother without doubt, but those eyes...those are Benjamin Barker's eyes. Sweeney's Todd eyes. It seems that Johanna has also banished herself to the farthest corner away from the door, and she is so close that Nellie that she could reach out through the wall and tuck her blonde hair behind her ear.

For a moment, Mrs. Lovett flounders, unsure what she should do in such a situation. It isn't often she runs into the daughter of the man she loves in an insane asylum, and she isn't quite sure what the proper etiquette is. Should she introduce herself? Mrs. Lovett almost rolls her eyes, hearing the conversation in her head, " 'ello Johanna, I'm in 'ere for beatin' the man I love - who 'elps me create 'uman pies by murderin' 'is customers - with a rollin' pin. 'E also 'appens to be your father, which is 'ow I knew your name. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, love."

No, that won't do at all. Until she can come up with something a little more plausible, she is going to have to keep an eye on the girl from afar. Besides the fact that she is Mr. Todd's daughter and he would want her to watch over the girl, Nellie thinks it just makes sense that the only two sane people in an insane asylum should make nice. Come to think of it, what is a girl like her doing in a place like this to begin with?

Turning from gawking at the girl, Mrs. Lovett gives her attention to the rather large rat ambling across the straw covered floor as she contemplates this. Perhaps Judge Turpin had gotten wind of Johanna's plan to escape with Anthony, or maybe this is a punishment of some sort. She frowns, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. Or maybe the girl really is crazy. It is only logical that a young woman in the care of the perverted Judge Turpin for so many years would slowly start to lose her mind. Perhaps over dinner - duck, maybe- the girl had simply snapped, unable to take any more of the Judge's perverse advances, and had been quickly dispatched to a lunatic asylum. She likes this idea better, it makes for a more interesting story, and she amuses herself with picturing the prim and proper ward hurling plates at her pseudo father.

Snorting aloud at the image in her head of Johanna throwing such a fit, Mrs. Lovett glances back at the girl to find her staring, wide eyed. She looks frightened, and Mrs. Lovett notices for the first time how pale she is. Nellie fumbles for something to say as Johanna peers warily at her through the significant hole in the prison wall, but nothing substantial comes to mind. Giving up on eloquence, she remarks dryly, "Nice place, ain't it?"

The girl's eyes widen further, as if she is startled that another person has spoken to her, and Mrs. Lovett is confused until she realizes that Johanna is assuming she's just babbling at her like the rest of the loonies. She draws away from the wall subtly, and Mrs. Lovett tries to give her a reassuring smile.

"Nothin' to be afraid of, love," she says, taking pity on the girl.

Johanna stares, seemingly dumbfounded, frightened eyes fixed on the baker as if waiting for her to try to reach through the wall and strangle her.

Eleanor sighs. If Johanna thinks she's just another inmate, how is she to contradict that? She doesn't exactly have the proper evidence to assure Johanna that she doesn't belong in here. Perhaps if they'd come a few months ago, before Sweeney Todd had literally walked back into her life, they would have found her suitable material for Bedlam. She'd been scatterbrained and making pies for no one, talking to them for company when she wasn't talking to herself. Granted, she still tends to talk to herself, but not as often with Toby and Mr. Todd around, even if talking to Mr. Todd _is_ like talking to herself. But how to make Johanna understand this? She can't very well talk to the girl if Johanna thinks she's crazy, and Mrs. Lovett is fairly certain she _will _go crazy if she doesn't find someone to have a conversation with soon.

An idea comes to mind, and she leans a little closer to the crumbling brick, squinting into the darkness. "Say, you look awfully familiar. What's your name?" The blonde glances around, as if making sure the crazed woman is really speaking to her and not some other girl. Mrs. Lovett gives her a gentle, prodding smile. "No reason to withhold such a lit'le bit of information. C'mon now."

"J-Johanna," she finally stutters quietly, looking at her lap.

"Why," Nellie tries to sound surprised, and she thinks she manages it quite well given the circumstances. "You're Anthony's Johanna, aren't ya ,love?"

Head shooting up instantly, Johanna's eyes are bright with surprise. "You know Anthony?" She questions softly, tilting her head to the side curiously. "How?"

Having the girl right where she wants her, Mrs. Lovett's smile widens. " 'E's been consultin' my tenant on 'ow to rescue ya from Judge Turpin."

"Mr. Todd?" Johanna asks. "Yes, Anthony has spoken quite well of him. A barber, isn't he?"

Mrs. Lovett nods merrily. The girl seems to believe her. "That's right, a barber."

"So if he is your tenant, then you're a landlady," Johanna states, brow furrowed as though she is trying to piece something together. "Anthony spoke very briefly of you. You don't seem crazy, ma'am, if you don't mind my saying so."

Her goal accomplished, Mrs. Lovett grins, nearly giddy with the prospect of making a friend. "It's Eleanor, love. Or Mrs. Lovett, if you prefer. And you don't seem so crazy either, if I may be so bold."

Johanna blushes, and murmurs something along the lines 'thank you ma'am' but Mrs. Lovett doesn't hear her over the sudden increase in volume in Johanna's room. The girl's eyes widen and she whirls around to face the door as it crashes open. She shrinks against the wall, closer to Mrs. Lovett, as the warden enters the blonde room with another well-dressed man, no doubt from the wealthier London district. Nellie hears Johanna's breathing quicken and watches as she tries to press herself into the wall, eyes squeezed shut. It looks as though she is mouthing something like, 'please' over and over again. Mrs. Lovett frowns, leaning toward the girl and peering cautiously into the room.

The unnamed man is eyeing the room with scrutiny. He doesn't bother to glance in the far corners of the cell before selecting a fair-haired young girl near him. The warden motions for the guard, who hauls the shrieking girl to her feet and drags her from the room, the warden and the man following, slamming the door shut behind them. Letting out a quiet breath of relief, Johanna straightens, turning to face Nellie but still looking ashen and terrified.

Mrs. Lovett regards her suspiciously. "What was that about?"

It seems that Johanna has decided to trust her, because she brings her legs up to wrap her arms around her knees, not entirely proper for a girl of her social standing, and leans closer to the gaping hole in the wall. "It's the warden's secret business," she whispers. "I've been watching him last night and this morning, and several gentlemen have come in and picked a girl. Then, nearly an hour later, she comes back weeping, and her dress is torn."

Eleanor's stomach turns at the direction Johanna's story is headed and she tightens her grip around her own knees, closing her eyes and shaking her head. " 'E lets men come in and rape prisoners for money, eh?" She asks, already knowing the answer. "Saw a gentleman come out when I was brought in, and Mr. Fogg wrote somethin' down in a little book and locked it away. Probably 'is ledger, where 'e keeps track of 'em."

"I realized what Mr. Fogg was up to and I've been trying to stay out of sight when he comes in," Johanna murmurs. "So far no one has payed me any mind."

Mrs. Lovett frowns again, knowing that a young girl as pretty as Johanna isn't going to go unnoticed for long. It worries her, but she tries not to let it show in her voice. "That's good, love. That was very smart of you."

Johanna clears her throat softly. "May I ask you a question, Mrs. Lovett?"

Smiling faintly at the polite, soft-spoken manner of the girl, Nellie says, "Course you can, dearie."

"If you're not..." Johanna trails off delicately. "Then why are you here?"

Thinking back on the reason she is sitting in this tiny little cell, Mrs. Lovett sighs. It seems like such a silly reason to go to Bedlam, giving Mr. Todd the good thumping that he'd needed. "Got into a bit of a public spat with one of my tenants," she says tactfully. "Someone must 'ave thought I was off my rocker and reported it."

"A disagreement hardly seems like a justifiable reason for imprisonment," Johanna replies unsurely, still questioning Nellie's sanity.

Mrs. Lovett blushes, casting her eyes to the filth covered floor. "I may 'ave taken a couple of whacks at 'im with a rollin' pin, which was wrong," she adds quickly before muttering under her breathe,"S'not to say 'e didn't deserve it, pompous bastard."

Eleanor isn't looking at her, but she hears a soft giggle come from the room next to her and it makes her smile that her transgressions can make the usually serious girl laugh. For all the grooming and fancy trappings, Johanna is still a young girl who likes to be amused. "Is your tenant alright?" She asks, still sounding as though she is trying to be proper and hold in her laughter.

"Oh, 'e's just fine," Mrs. Lovett assures her. "Mr. Todd's a very strong man, I doubt I left a mark at all."

"Mr. Todd?" The girl sounds surprised. "But isn't he helping Anthony? Anthony makes him sound so even-tempered and kind-hearted. I can't imagine - " Nellie's undisguised snort of laughter interrupts Johanna's ill-informed description of the barber, and she turns to watch the woman in the next cell wipe away tears of mirth.

"Love," she breathes when she has caught her breath. "If Mr. T is even-tempered and kind-'earted, then I'm the bloody Queen of England." Realizing that she is talking to the man's daughter, whether the girl knows it or not, Mrs. Lovett tries to amend this. Thinking of the brooding murderer, it isn't difficult to come up with something good to outweigh his other faults. "But 'e's a good man, 'e is. In 'is own way. Just very focused, very much in 'is own world most of the time." She sighs sadly. "Mr. Todd's 'ad a 'ard life, just like the rest of us."

Johanna shifts in the cell next to her to let her feet touch the floor, looking directly into the hole, their means of communication. "You really aren't crazy, then?" She murmurs hopefully, sounding shy and tired all at once.

Mrs. Lovett shakes her head with a wry smile. "Not yet, love."

As Johanna settles back against the wall, resting her fair head against the grimy stone and closing her eyes, Eleanor thinks about her question. _You really aren't crazy?_ When she'd been brought in just hours ago, she'd vehemently protested her sanity, insisting that she wasn't crazy, and she isn't. A little on the loopy side, but certainly not round the bend just yet. And Mrs. Lovett has to wonder, if being in love with a murder, or chopping people up and making them into pies doesn't make one insane, then what does?

Before she has much of a chance to contemplate this, there is a commotion from down the hall, and the door to the blonde room opens again, flooding the small space with the light of a torch. A guard stands in the doorway, struggling with the same girl who had been taken from the room nearly an hour ago. After a small struggle, he grabs her by the hair of her head and yanks her into the room. She falls to the ground in tears, and he slams the door shut behind her. The room is silent as the women listen to the key sliding into the lock, and the footsteps of the guard retreating down the hallway.

For a long moment, the only sound to be heard through the whole corridor in their lonely corner of the asylum, is the anonymous young girl's anguished weeping. Johanna and Eleanor look down at her with pity in their hearts while the other lunatics, the ones who are not too far gone to even notice her, cry along with her, silent tears sliding down their dirty cheeks. Nellie can only guess that most of them have gone through this particular torture before. Just when she is about to turn away, no longer able to stand the sight of another human being in such pain, a snatch of a faintly murmured song reaches her ears, and she looks around wildly, trying to find its origin.

It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It echoes off the walls and within seconds, other voices join in. The sound grows stronger and begins to fill the whole corridor with voices raised in song. It is a haunting rendition of what sounds like old nursery rhyme, though Eleanor has never heard it before. She feels chills run up and down her spine as she listens to the lunatics chant together.

Johanna whimpers, and Mrs. Lovett quickly turns her head to see what is bothering the girl only to be startled by the feel of a cool, clammy hand reaching through the wall for hers. She grasps the girl's palm gently, bewildered.

"I hate it when they do this," Johanna explains softly. "They sang for hours last night. It's the most horrible sound."

Nellie cannot imagine having to listen to the chilling verses of what appears to be a child's lullaby for hours on end, and she squeezes Johanna's hand tighter. "Hush, love. Just close your eyes and try to sleep, eh?"

Johanna shakes her head tearfully and her yellow hair seems to move with her, in perfect synchronization with the rest of her. "I can't. Not listening to this."

"Don't blame you," Mrs. Lovett mutters, glancing around at the girls, both young and old, chanting together, some of them hugging themselves and rocking back and forth. The girl on the floor still hasn't moved, but her sobs have quieted to soft hiccupping cries instead.

"Mrs. Lovett?" Johanna whispers into the dark.

"Yes, love?"

"Could you just...talk to me?" She trails off shyly. "It would distract me and be a great help."

Mrs. Lovett almost laughs. There has never been a time in her life when someone has actually had to ask her to speak, but for once, she has no idea what to talk about. "What would you like me to say?" She asks distractedly, noticing the difference between their hands as she holds the girl's fingers in hers. Nellie's hands are cold and strong, still lightly dusted with flour but Johanna's are soft and feminine, speaking of a lifetime of luxury. In a way, Judge Turpin taking her in had been a good thing, she supposes. If Eleanor had been allowed to keep the girl, she doubts Johanna's hands would be quite so delicate, or her dresses so fine.

"Tell me a story?" Johanna requests, sounding very much like a small child.

Eleanor frowns, a troubled look marring her features. The only stories she knows are the penny dreadfuls she reads to Toby before she tucks him in at night, and she doubts that Johanna will be particularly interested in such common tales of the lower class. Most of them are hardly meant for a girl of her tender age and social standing, Mrs. Lovett only reads them to Toby because he is so much less sheltered than the average child. She only knows one other story worth hearing, and she bites her lip, wondering if it is her story to tell anymore. It might get the girl to relax, or even sleep. Mrs. Lovett suspects it won't do any harm if she puts the right spin on the wretched little tale and after several more moments of silent debate, she comes to a decision.

"Once upon a time," she begins softly, running her fingers over the girl's palm soothingly. "There was a beautiful barber and 'is wife. They loved each other very much, and they were the most perfect couple in the kingdom where they lived. They 'ad a pretty lit'le daughter, and became a perfect family." Mrs. Lovett pauses, pursing her lips in thought. "So perfect they made others in the kingdom jealous, drivin' 'em to do petty things."

Johanna's hold on her hand tightens, but Nellie can hear the girl's breathing evening out over the din of raised voices. She continues her story, feeling a bit silly but taking comfort in the fact that it is soothing Johanna, taking her mind off of their predicament.

"There was also an evil prince who set out to ruin the 'appiness of the perfect family. 'E wanted the beautiful wife all to 'imself, so 'e banished the barber from 'is kingdom. The barber's wife was so distraught at her 'usband's banishment that she drank a whole vial of poison, leavin' their child in the care of their peasant friend. And _then _the evil prince - "

Mrs. Lovett stops abruptly, looking closely at the girl and finding her with her head resting against the wall, fast asleep and still holding the baker's hand. At the sound of the guards pounding on the doors, ordering them to be quiet and threatening them with punishment, the voices of the inmates have lowered to hushed whispers, faintly echoing off the stones.

Sighing softly, Nellie settles herself further into the wall, preparing herself to watch over the girl as she sleeps, keeping the other inmates and the rats at bay. "Don't you worry, dearie," she confides quietly to the sleeping girl. "I'm sure your Anthony and my Mr. Todd are thinkin' of a way to get us outta 'ere right now."

_---_

He cannot remember how to make soup. Normally, he would not _have _to remember something so meaningless and trivial, but with Mrs. Lovett gone, Mr. Todd is coming to realize that there are several things he is going to have to start doing himself. Pouring his own gin is at the top of the list, along with making his own meals. Granted, he doesn't eat much to begin with, just enough to keep his stomach from distracting him with its infernal growling.

As if on cue, Mr. Todd's stomach rumbles, and he stares dejectedly at the kitchen cabinets, at a complete loss for what to do. It had crossed his mind to order the boy to make him something, but he isn't feeling quite that desperate yet. The barber has far too much pride to ask a child for help. He'd rather starve. How hard can it be, anyway? He had seen Mrs. Lovett do it plenty of times.

Randomly choosing a cabinet to open, Mr. Todd glares into the cupboard at all of the ingredients stored within, as if willing them to come together and make themselves into a proper meal before his very eyes. He suddenly wishes he had paid more attention to the baker when she'd been hard at work making his meals, but he rarely paid any more attention to Mrs. Lovett than was absolutely necessary.

In truth, he hadn't even been thinking about food when he'd been pacing relentlessly in his barber shop upstairs mere minutes ago. Visitation day at the asylum cannot come soon enough for the overeager barber, and he'd been in the process of plotting their escape and subsequent getaway when his stomach had quite rudely interrupted him, demanding sustenance.

His first thought was to wonder why Mrs. Lovett hadn't bothered to bring him his dinner, and then he'd growled at himself for forgetting once again that she was no longer there to wait on him hand and foot. Mr. Todd is rather annoyed with himself for depending so much on her for his many daily needs.

He'd also come to understand that until her return, he would have to deal with the little orphan she had taken in as well. Toby is currently fast asleep in his bed, having fretted himself into exhaustion. He hadn't wanted to go to sleep, Sweeney had practically had to use force with the boy. The day had been a trying one, and the last thing he'd needed was Toby staying up past his bedtime to annoy him further. Only at Mr. Todd's adamant and gruff assurances that they would find a way to free Mrs. Lovett from confinement, did the lad finally trudge sleepily down the hall to his small bedroom.

Anthony Hope had insisted that he would find an inn to accommodate him, but after nearly two hours of saying so and never leaving, Mr. Todd had gotten the hint and grudgingly offered to let the sailor sleep on the sofa in the parlor. From his current position in the kitchen, staring dubiously at the kitchen cabinets, he can hear the younger man snoring quite loudly and grimaces. Despite all her chatter, at least _Mrs. Lovett_ hadn't snored.

He scowls darkly at a mixing bowl. His thoughts have been consumed entirely too much by Mrs. Lovett today, and he knows the only things that should be occupying his mind are revenge and Lucy. Perhaps, he concedes, he is only thinking of Mrs. Lovett so often because her imprisonment hinders his plans for the Judge. It makes sense that his mind should turn to her, considering he cannot do much without his accomplice in his crimes. Once Mrs. Lovett is free, he'll be able to continue on with his existence as it should be and she will trouble his thoughts no longer.

Giving a slight, barely perceptible nod of his head, Mr. Todd turns back to the matter at hand.

Soup.

Now, how had Mrs. Lovett done this? He vaguely remembers her cutting up vegetables at an alarmingly fast rate, and dropping them into some sort of large cooking pot but that is where his memory ends. Deciding he will do what he can recall and make up the rest, because making soup cannot possibly be too difficult, Todd begins gathering any vegetables he can manage to find.

Did she use carrots? He doesn't even remember if he _likes _carrots, but he tosses them in anyway, along with celery and potatoes. He finds some strips of meat that he sincerely hopes is not actually human flesh and throws them into the boiling pot as well. He isn't sure if he is supposed to add anything else, but the process feels incomplete. Mr. Todd has faint memories of a humming Mrs. Lovett adding spices and some sort of brothy liquid, but where those sorts of things might be is beyond him.

Snarling at his own incompetence when it comes to cooking, he stares balefully into the pot containing his watery concoction. It is supposed to be soup, but it looks and smells nothing like the way it does when Mrs. Lovett makes it. Mr. Todd's stomach growls again loudly, as if he needs a reminder that he hasn't eaten all day. He looks again at the "soup" and his lip curls in disgust. He goes to bed hungry that night, hoping Toby will wake up before he does and make breakfast. Todd realizes then that the sooner he rescues Mrs. Lovett, the better. Not only for his plans, but his appetite as well.

* * *

A/N - Robynne is such an amazing beta that I am forever indebted to her wisdom. In fact, I'm her personal slave, feeding her grapes right this very moment. Go read her stuff, she's also pretty freaking talented at writing. Go figure. Oh, and Robynne is also responsible for the title of this chapter, which is a quote from the book Around The World In 80 Days. You are all absolutely wonderful, thank you so much for your feedback. I don't know what I'd do without you all to supply me with my fix of reviews. Probably shrivel up and die:D

Thyme - Thanks! I'm glad you appreciate small details, I love when people mention those sorts of things. And yes, Mr. Taylor is a bit of a creep but I think Nellie can take care of him if it comes down to Thank you for reviewing!


	4. The Voices In My Head

_The Shadow Proves The Sunshine_

_I was never crazy._

Four small words had never been so chilling.

Carved in stone just below the barred window filtering in the dim morning sunlight, the words send shivers down Mrs. Lovett's spine. Stretching her legs out in front of her and stifling a yawn, she studies the etching with interest. Protesting one's sanity while being shut away in a madhouse is disturbing enough, especially if that person really _isn't _crazy. It reminds Mrs. Lovett too much of herself, and she frowns.

But the really troubling part is the actual wording. 'Was', by definition, is a word referring to the past. As in over, done with, finished. It is a very definitive statement, and she cannot help but wonder if it had been someone's last words, a final say before permanently parting from the earth. Goosebumps spread quickly across her arms as another thought enters Eleanor's mind, and she wraps her arms around herself to ward off the sudden chill. What if, instead of a goodbye, the words had meant the author had once been sane but after being locked up for so long, they really had started to go crazy? Maybe the words had been a testament to a once sound mind.

Neither prospect is particularly appealing to Nellie, and she turns her eyes to the other nonsensical sketches and words covering the stone walls. Is this her fate? Will the dank, oppressive air eventually drive her insane as well? Perhaps her descent into madness has already begun, and she hasn't even noticed it yet. Maybe this is how one goes about becoming crazy - the madness creeps into unaware minds, so slowly that when one realizes what is happening, it is far too late to do anything about it. She tries to shake off such thoughts, and think of what is to come, when Mr. Todd finally gets her out of this place, but in the darkness that makes up Bedlam, it is difficult to think of anything existing outside these walls.

It isn't easy to keep her thoughts on Mr. Todd and Toby, on her life before she had been carted off to this madhouse - as if waltzing in her pie shop with her beloved barber and humming to herself as she put together her first human pie had merely been the delusions of a sickened mind. As if she had never known a life outside this inescapable nightmare.

Shaking her head violently, Mrs. Lovett brings a hand to her face, reassuring herself that she isn't beginning to disappear completely. She is _not _going crazy, she is better than this nonsense. Nellie refuses to put herself in the same category as whoever had written those unsettling last words. Bedlam is enough to drive even the sanest person mad, but she will not succumb. She is stronger than they are, and she will survive this with her sanity intact. She has to. There is no other choice.

With this new resolve, Eleanor swallows hard and decides to turn her attention elsewhere. She looks around the room more closely, hoping to find something to occupy her mind so that the gravity of her situation - and the overwhelming panic that is sure to follow - does not have time to suffocate her once more. During the night while keeping watch over Johanna, Mrs. Lovett has had the opportunity to observe a few of the girls she is sharing a cell with.

Most of them, she must admit, have perfectly justifiable reasons for being here. Some of the women in the room seem to be oblivious to anyone else's presence but their own, hugging themselves, slumped against walls and on dingy cots. A few of them stare blankly into space, a vacant look in their eyes, while others mumble and giggle to themselves, lost in their own world. One woman keeps talking aloud, as though responding to another person who exists only inside her head. Another keeps licking her hands and arms, continuously meowing as if believing herself to be a cat. There is even one woman, chained to the wall, who wears a metal helmet so the demons cannot read her thoughts.

Boredom is beginning to set in. Nellie thinks about waking Johanna, but decides that it would be selfish to wake her just for entertainment. At least she had managed to reclaim her hand from the girl's iron grasp a few hours back. Looking around the room more closely, a group of women near her catches Mrs. Lovett's eye, and she watches them intently, realizing they seem to be conversing amiably with one another, sitting in a circle on the floor. Straining her ears, she can just barely overhear their conversation.

"I went over twenty-one again," a girl with matted strawberry red hair sighs, looking down at her hands spread out in front of her, as if she is holding something but her hands are empty.

The girl next to her - whose shortly cropped hair seems to be caked with dirt - smiles triumphantly. "Not me. I've got fifteen."

"Nineteen," says the girl next to her, and it looks like she is spreading something out in front of the other two, as if to show them something. "I win again."

While the two others scoff with annoyance, Mrs. Lovett can only gape at them, dumbfounded. Their conversation sounds quite ordinary, even if she isn't sure what they are speaking of. This seemingly normal group sounds just as sane as anyone she might meet on the streets of London. Intrigued, Mrs. Lovett casts a glance at Johanna to make sure she is still sleeping before relinquishing her spot on the stone bench and scuttling cautiously toward the threesome huddled on the floor.

The girl with matted hair looks with a genuine smile when she approaches. "Hello," she says brightly. "Would you like to play?"

Nellie looks between the three of them tentatively, still wary about approaching anyone locked away in a madhouse. "What is it you're doin'?"

The girl gestures before her vaguely, as though what they are playing is completely obvious. "Why, cards of course." She laughs. "At the moment we're playing Twenty-One, if you'd like to join us."

Brow furrowed, Nellie crosses her arms over her chest. "If case you 'aven't noticed, you don't 'ave any cards to play with, dearie."

The other girls snigger quietly to themselves, as though Mrs. Lovett is the one who has lost her mind, instead of the other way around. "We know that," one of them says. "We're pretending."

"Then 'ow can you possibly know what cards you 'ave and what cards you don't 'ave?" Eleanor persists, confused but fascinated.

"We make it up, silly," another girl giggles at her question. "Do you want to play or not?"

They look at her expectantly, waiting for an answer. Playing a game of invisible cards isn't exactly how Mrs. Lovett had planned to pass her time at Bedlam, but these three women happen to be some of the most civilized beings in her cell, and she supposes it wouldn't do any harm to join them. It's something to do, at least. And she can just imagine the look on Toby's face as she tells him about the time she sat in the midst of lunatics and played an invisible game of Twenty-One. That is, if she ever gets out of here.

Shrugging, she gathers her skirts, and with a look of disgust, lowers herself to the floor. Glancing around worriedly for any sewer rats or overly large bugs, and finding none in her immediate vicinity, Nellie allows herself to relax just a fraction and looks at her newly acquired playmates. They regard her curiously, and she gives them the most polite smile she can muster under the circumstances.

"I'm Emmy," says the girl with matted strawberry hair. "Or, Emmeline, really."

"Tilda," the woman with jaggedly cut, short hair smiles at her from her spot leaning against the wall.

The other woman, who had won the last round with a total of nineteen, looks up from her so-called cards spread out on the floor. "Claribel."

"Eleanor," Mrs. Lovett says primly, casting another glance in Johanna's direction. The girl hasn't moved an inch, and satisfied that her young charge is safe for the time being, turns her attention back to her companions. "Alright, deal me in."

Claribel, who seems to be in charge of handing out the cards, picks up the invisible pack and counts out the correct amount of cards, placing them in front of Nellie. Without a thought, she scoops up the unseen cards into her hand and pretends to study them intently, as the others seem to be doing. She feels quite silly, but she has to admit it is probably the most fun she'll have in a place like this.

Making a noise of dissatisfaction as she glances over her hand, Mrs. Lovett sighs. "Seems that my good luck with cards games only applies to the visible ones."

Tilda snorts at this, and the game commences. During the card game, Mrs. Lovett manages to drag bits and pieces of information from the girls about their pasts and why they'd been placed in the asylum to begin with. It is reassuring to know that they are not truly mad, in the literal sense of the word. Emmy's fiancé had died, leaving her depressed and turning to self-harm. She'd been committed by her parents. Tilda's husband had convinced the warden of her insanity so he could be free to marry his mistress, and Claribel, a widow, had been forced into the asylum by her neighbors, who insisted that her seclusion also went hand in hand with madness.

Their debate about whether or not Emmeline really does have twenty-one is interrupted quite suddenly by a woman across the hall shouting, "Timothy!"

And then, without warning, other voices join in, all of them calling, "Timothy! Timothy!"

Mrs. Lovett glances around, looking baffled. Claribel smiles at her and explains, "They shout things they hear from the street. Someone repeats it and the others pick it up, it's like a game to them. Someone outside the asylum must be shouting for a Timothy."

Mouth forming an 'O' in understanding, Nellie steals another glance at Johanna to find that the increased volume in the constant yelling has pulled the girl from her slumber. Johanna slowly straightens and begins looking around, blinking blearily. The look on her young face gradually changes from one of confusion to utter panic, and she begins looking around frantically, as though searching for something.

Nellie frowns but calls out, "Well, look who decided to join the land of the livin' again."

Peering further into the wall, Johanna spots Mrs. Lovett on the floor, and her face crumples in relief. "Oh, there you are! I thought you'd gone."

Mrs. Lovett eyes her piteously. "Now where would I go, love?"

Johanna purses her lips. "People disappear quite often in this place, ma'am."

"Well I don't intend to go anywhere," Mrs. Lovett reassures her with a soft smile. "Least not without you, little Jo. You don't mind if I call you that, do ya, love? Every girl needs a nickname." Johanna looks stricken, but says nothing to protest the use of her new name. "I've just been tryin' to keep myself amused while you slept, is all."

Johanna, surveying the scene on the other side of the wall more closely, furrows her brow. "What is it you're doing, exactly?"

Gesturing as though it is all incredibly obvious and Johanna is utterly daft for not getting it, Eleanor says, "Why, playing cards o' course. An' I 'appen to be winnin'."

"But..." Johanna squints at the floor in front of them. "I see no cards. How can you play a game of cards without cards?"

Mrs. Lovett nods once in her direction with a smirk. "Threw me off at first too, dearie. You get used to it after a while."

Johanna nods slowly, eyeing Mrs. Lovett as if she is starting to believe the woman really does belong in this madhouse.

"You want me to deal you in?" Nellie inquires, no longer looking at Johanna but staring as Emmy places her cards on the floor. "Now that's cheatin', love. Ya can't put down a six, a seven and a nine, an' tell me it's twenty-one!"

"No thank you," comes Johanna's soft reply. "Mrs. Lovett, can I ask you a question?"

Pausing in the middle of studying a new hand, and being entirely aware of how crazy she must look, Mrs. Lovett glances up at Johanna, beaming. "Course you can."

Biting her lower lip tentatively, Johanna studies the crumbling brick separating them. "Do you promise to answer truthfully?"

Nellie is wary now, but she nods anyway, ignoring the card game going on in her absence. "I'm always honest with you, love."

"The story you told me last night..." Johanna wavers, glancing up at Mrs. Lovett and looking away again hurriedly. "Was it true?"

Freezing in place, Mrs. Lovett struggles to keep her face from showing her surprise. Instead, she turns to the three women who have been keeping her company and says, "I think I'll sit this one out, dears. 'Ave fun, eh?" Standing on shaky legs from the damp and filthy floor of the cell, Nellie makes her way back to her spot next to the wall and lowers herself once again to the stone bench. Not wanting to meet Johanna's eyes, she pretends to be fascinated with the beading on her skirts, toying with a lose thread. "What would make you ask such a question, love?"

Johanna is quiet for a moment, and Nellie is beginning to wonder if she will answer at all when the girl's whispered reply reaches her ears. "It didn't sound like just a fairy tale." She pauses, deliberating with herself. "You seemed very familiar with it, and I cannot help but wonder if you'd merely...changed a few things for my sake. Is it a true story?"

Eleanor is still unable to meet Johanna's eyes, knowing they are just like Mr. Todd's and wondering if the girl could see through her in a way her father had never been able to. "That was just a lit'le tale to get ya to sleep, wasn't meant to be taken seriously."

Johanna frowns, showing her discontent. "That wasn't an honest answer, Mrs. Lovett. You promised."

Huffing, Mrs. Lovett raises her eyes to look at the blonde, defeat etched in every bit of her expression. "Yes, love. It was a true story." She tilts her head to the side. "Well, mostly. Weren't princes or kingdoms, but other than that..."

"How horrible," Johanna murmurs, watching Mrs. Lovett fiddle nervously with her hair. "Who would do something like that? Take an innocent man away from his family for their own selfish reasons?"

Mrs. Lovett snorts derisively. "Many a man, little Jo. There is true evil in this world, whether you want to see it or not."

Johanna bristles. "I know more of evil than you think, ma'am."

The look of staunch stubbornness on the girl's face could not have been more like her father's if she'd tried, and Nellie feels a shiver run down her spine. She ignores it, raising an eyebrow instead, "Perhaps you're right. Can't imagine anyone livin' with Judge Turpin and not knowin' the meanin' of evil."

Johanna's lips quirk in a reluctant smile, and she glances at her lap. "If the story is true..." She trails off, hesitating. "Did you know them? The barber and his family?"

Eleanor can only hope Johanna does not hear her sharp intake of breath. "That I did."

Looking eager, eyes full of questions, Johanna begins, "What - "

Whatever the girl had been about to ask is cut off by heavy footsteps down the hallway, and the raised screams of the inmates upon the arrival of the guards. The door to the redhead room is pushed open with a loud bang, and two guards, different than the ones that had accompanied the warden to the pie shop yesterday morning, cross the threshold carrying one large basket each.

Mrs. Lovett watches the lunatics cower and tremble as the guards stalk about the cell, dropping hunks of bread into their laps and thrusting cups into their shaking hands. It doesn't seem like much to her, and she doubts it will be enough to keep up her strength or Johanna's. Used to starving, Nellie is more worried about the girl than herself, and her eyes glimmer with delight as an idea springs to mind. When the guards reach her, Nellie wrinkles her nose at the brown liquid in the cup.

"What is this s'posed to be?" She asks with disdain, ignoring the chunk of stale-looking bread tossed to her lap.

One guard pauses to give her a glare. "S'water."

"Don't look like water," Mrs. Lovett mumbles, grimacing at the filthy concoction. "Looks like you bloody scooped it outta the sewer."

Dropping his bundle of bread, the guard seizes Nellie by the upper arms, pulling her to her feet in an instant. Shaking her roughly before shoving her into the wall and letting her head hit the stone with a sickening crack, he snarls, "Even if we did, it's more than you deserve ya bleedin' lunatic."

A little disoriented from having her head slammed into solid stone, Mrs. Lovett blinks at him, trying to focus her eyes. When she can see him clearly, she doesn't bother with a response, giving him her best withering glare as she lifts her leg, her knee firmly connecting with his groin. The guard drops her, falling to his knees and groaning. Stumbling, Mrs. Lovett catches herself before she hits the floor with him, holding onto the wall for support as the guard lets out a string of curses at her feet.

The other guard, hearing the commotion, turns to look, eyes widening when he realizes his partner no longer has things under control. "Oi, quit messing around, Harlan. We got a whole sodding madhouse to feed, you can torture 'er later."

Harlan shakes his head, slowly rising to full height again, glaring at Mrs. Lovett. "They've been starving for days, a few more minutes won't'urt." He reaches for Nellie's arm, and she tries to squirm away from him, but he has her backed against the wall. There is nowhere for her to run, and his grin is sadistic as he grasps her by the throat, squeezing his fingers around her windpipe and effectively cutting off her air supply. "The wench needs to learn 'er place."

The guard across the room sighs. "Just hurry up then," he grumbles. "You know the warden likes to be the one to punish 'em."

Nellie tries to wrench away from him, attempting to kick her leg out like before, but Harlan is ready for this and merely steps closer to her, pinning her firmly to the wall with his own burly weight and effectively preventing her from moving an inch. His grip around her neck tightens, and she tries to draw in a ragged breath, still attempting to struggle. She is flailing around so wildly that he doesn't seem to notice her slender hand snaking into his coat pocket and drawing something out, letting it drop to the floor.

Her task completed, Mrs. Lovett begins clawing desperately at Harlan's hand as she gasps for air. She glances at Johanna out of the corner of her eye, hating for the girl to witness whatever is about to happen. Johanna is watching the scene through the wall in mute horror, her eyes wide and alarmed. Nellie doesn't see much else, her eyesight is becoming fuzzy, blackening around the edges of her vision. Giving one last feeble attempt to fill her lungs with air and failing, Eleanor's eyes flutter closed, on the brink of unconsciousness, and she vaguely hears Johanna's shriek of horror.

Then, suddenly, Harlan's grip on her throat slackens. Shoving her one last time into the wall, he releases his hold on her, allowing her to slump to the floor, gasping wildly for breath.

"Don't let me 'ear you open yer mouth again, wench." He glares down at her, and Mrs. Lovett, still struggling for air and clutching weakly at her throat, manages a feeble glare in return. Grunting in response, Harlan turns swiftly on his heel, hurling pieces of bread at the remainder of the prisoners on his way out.

Panting and dizzy, Nellie reaches out blindly to the wall, slowly lifting herself from the floor and collapsing down onto the cold stone of the bench. Struggling to regain her senses and gathering the tattered pieces of her bravado, she turns her eyes to the ceiling, closing them briefly. If and when she gets out of this damnable purgatory, she will make sure that sodding git is slit open from nose to groin. Comforting herself with the gory images, Mrs. Lovett sighs, letting a soft smile grace her lips.

"M-Mrs. Lovett," Johanna stutters next to her.

Eleanor's eyes fly open at the tortured sound of Johanna's voice; she'd nearly forgotten about the girl. Turning her head very slowly to look into the next room, she attempts a weak smile. "I'm fine, love."

"I'm sorry," Johanna whispers. "I just sat there, I couldn't move, couldn't speak. I should have said something, I - "

Mrs. Lovett scoffs. "And what, love? Been dragged out to be given a good lashin'? Don't be silly. I'm glad you kept quiet, it was exactly what I was hopin' you'd do."

Drawing her knees up to her chest, Johanna says, "You shouldn't have done that. The guards don't like complaints, they may not feed us again for a week for that."

Nellie grins, suddenly remembering her unexpected victory. "No matter," she says brightly. "I managed to sneak a couple of scraps when our dear friend 'arlan was attemptin' to crush my windpipe." Reaching to the floor, the tiny baker lifts a sizable kerchief-wrapped bundle and pushes it through the hole in the wall, dropping it into Johanna's lap. "Managed to slip my 'and into 'is pocket and pull it out, dropped it to the floor so 'e wouldn't see. Probably 'is lunch." Her mischievous smile widens. "Not anymore."

Johanna's eyes widen as she unties the cloth to reveal three large hunks of bread and an apple. "Mrs. Lovett, you shouldn't have! He'll notice it's missing and know you took it!"

Mrs. Lovett shrugs, not troubled in the least by this news. What does it matter to her whether he knows she took it? He'll never find her with the evidence of her thievery, and the brute won't think to check the next room. They are home free as far as she is concerned.

"The warden will give you a sound lashing for stealing," Johanna warns her, picking up the apple to study it. "He did the night I came; he caught a girl trying to steal an orange from his waistcoat pocket."

"Don't worry about me, love," Eleanor smiles fondly. "Just eat. Need to keep up your strength, you do."

Johanna frowns, and the action creases her lovely face. "What about you? You need to eat as well."

"Not really one for stale bread and fruit," Mrs. Lovett laughs quietly. "Besides, ya need to be ready when Anthony comes for ya, dearie. Can't very well make your escape when you're faint with hunger."

This seems to convince the girl, because she tentatively bites into the apple, and Nellie smiles tiredly as the sweet smell of the fruit permeates the otherwise stale air. "Ration that now, love," she cautions. "Who knows when they'll remember to feed us again. And drink that water. I know it's filthy but it's better than nothin'."

The words have barely left her mouth when the door to the room bursts open so hard that it crashes thunderously against the wall behind it, making the inhabitants of the room jump, flinching away from the noise. The warden stands in the doorway, looking livid, staring directly at Mrs. Lovett. He steps into the room, his guards shadowing his movements from behind, and the lunatics shrink away from him in fear.

Mrs. Lovett swallows, murmuring, "Hide the food," under her breath to Johanna. The girl quickly but quietly scrambles to hide away the stolen food, covering it with the straw at her feet. Her breathing is labored as she straightens, trying to pretend she isn't watching the scene on the other side of the wall. Mr. Fogg reaches Nellie's self-proclaimed spot in the corner and looks down on her disapprovingly.

His voice echoes as he says, "My guard has informed me that you complained of the water, is that true?"

Nodding, Mrs. Lovett grips the edge of the bench beneath her with shaking fingers until her knuckles are bone white. "That I did," she replies in a voice much stronger than she is feeling. "Tis inhumane the way you treat these women. They could contract cholera from that filth at the very least!"

Mr. Fogg tsks softly, clucking his tongue at her. "He also tells me he seems to be missing his lunch - a kerchief of bread and fruit. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, dearest?"

Frowning at the acidic tone in the pet name, Eleanor raises her eyes to glance at the guards behind him. Harlan is glowering at her, and the other merely looks annoyed to be standing there. "No sir," Mrs. Lovett turns her eyes back to the warden with a lilting grin. "I don't believe I've seen any fruit 'round 'ere."

The warden's mouth tightens, and his beady eyes harden as they gaze into hers. "Very well," he says stiffly. "I do not tolerate liars among my children. You leave me no choice."

Harlan's smile is so wide it looks as though it could break his broad face. It instantly makes Nellie uneasy, and she shifts a little on her bench, refusing to look at Johanna in case the warden realizes the girl's involvement. Instead, she merely tightens her grip on the bench and braces herself.

Jerking his head to the side, Mr. Fogg calls behind him, "Please escort our newest darling to the dungeons. Her punishment awaits."

_--_

Sweeney Todd is annoyed.

The woman isn't even here and she follows him everywhere, whispering into his ear when he doesn't want to listen. He cannot sit in his barber's chair without recalling the memory of her kneeling before him, entreating him to wait, to be patient. He cannot sit in the pie shop without recounting her genius plan to bake their victims into pies. She is even standing over his shoulder when he sits in the parlor, talking over escape plans with Anthony. Her presence is everywhere, even when Mrs. Lovett herself is locked away in an insane asylum, miles away from him.

Glowering at the wooden floorboards beneath his feet, Mr. Todd mindlessly flicks his razor open and closed, creating a metallic pattern of noises. _Clink. Snap. Clink. Snap. _He finds it remarkable that he thinks more of the baker when she isn't here than he ever did when she was right beneath his shop. The soft voice of reason in his head that he always tries to ignore to the best of his ability whispers something about absence and a fond heart, but he brushes it away, scowling.

He has no reason to miss her presence. Toby had risen early and made them all breakfast, much to Todd's relief, so it isn't her cooking that he requires. He certainly doesn't miss her bubbly chatter, or the way she always came up to check on him and fuss over him, or even the way she flitted about his shop, humming while she scrubbed bloodstains from the floorboards. So what _is _it?

_Clink. Snap. Clink. Snap. _

Mr. Todd's eyes flicker briefly from the floor to his razor, and he catches a glimpse of the cuff of his clean, neatly pressed white shirt. The laundry, he determines with a faint nod. _Of course_, why hadn't he thought of it before? Toby can't wash clothes, and being a sailor, Anthony has no use for such knowledge. Mrs. Lovett is the only one able to wash and iron his shirts, she keeps him looking halfway presentable. It makes perfect sense, and Todd lets out a soft sigh of relief now that the things in his world have been restored to their rightful order.

Like all good things in life, the tranquility doesn't last long. From down below, in the vicinity of the pie shop, comes a piercing shriek followed briefly by a loud crash and the words, "Mr. Todd!"

He clenches his jaw in annoyance, but he isn't sure if it is merely because of the girlish yelp, or the fact that said yelp had interrupted his rare moment of peace. Sweeney rises languidly to his feet, razor still in hand and marches toward the ruckus downstairs. At first, he is certain Anthony is only calling for him because he fell or dropped a glass, but as he reaches the stairs, Mr. Todd realizes it could be about Johanna and Mrs. Lovett, or maybe the authorities had finally decided to come poking around. He takes the stairs two at a time, and bursts through the door of the pie shop breathless and panicked.

"What?" He barks when he looks around and finds the place empty.

"Over here," comes a soft squeak, and Todd steps further into the shop and finds Anthony in the corner, standing on a table, wide-eyed.

Todd gapes at him, taking in the sailor's pale face and sharp, quick breaths. "What the devil are you doing?"

Before Anthony can answer, loud footsteps sound from another part of the house and Toby comes barreling into the room, skidding to a stop in the doorway. "What's the matter?" He asks, panting. "Who screamed?"

Mr. Todd narrows his eyes at Anthony and the young man gulps.

"I-it was huge," he says, his voice quiet and filled with awe. "The biggest I've ever seen."

Toby frowns, regarding the sailor warily. "What was 'uge? And what are you doin' on the table, we eat there, y'know!"

Anthony makes no move to drop to the floor, instead stepping gingerly from the table and onto the seat of a chair. "A spider," he continues urgently, not noticing the way Toby's eyes widen in delight. "It was on the floor! The biggest black spider I've ever seen!"

Snorting, Toby says, "You're afraid of spiders? What kind of sailor are you?"

Pursing his lips for a moment, Anthony eyes the floor suspiciously. "I'm not afraid of spiders," he insists haughtily. "It just...startled me. It was quite a large specimen."

"Sure," Toby agrees uncertainly. "Anyway, that's not a spider, that's Bloke."

Mr. Todd raises an eyebrow at the boy, repeating the word with distaste coloring his tone. "_Bloke_?"

Toby nods eagerly. " 'E's been terrorizin' the pie shop for nigh over a week now. Mum almost got 'im the other day." The mention of Mrs. Lovett seems to dampen the boy's spirits, and his shoulders droop just slightly.

Sweeney's lip pulls back in a faint sneer. Only Mrs. Lovett would give a name to the spider she is trying to squash. Scanning the room with a keen eye and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he deduces that they are both absolutely mad and grunts, "Big or not, I see no spid - bloody hell!" The thing has just crawled out from the shadows, and acting on instinct, Todd flicks open his razor, studying the scuttling spider with a calculating eye. He notices that it seems to crawl from left to right, almost like a crab, and takes that into consideration as he tilts his head to the side, squinting, razor poised over his shoulder.

Taking aim just as the spider moves to the left again, he flings the blade to the floor toward the beast. The razor imbeds itself in the tiled floor, making a mark big enough for Mrs. Lovett to throw a fit over but doing nothing to injure his prey. Bloke jerks quickly out of the way and seems to quicken his rapid pace, as if realizing that by being out in the open, his life is in jeopardy. Growling in frustration because he has just blunted his best razor for nothing, Sweeney steps forward, intent on squashing the menace to bits beneath his boot.

"Wait!" Toby shouts, holding up his hands. Sweeney freezes only out of surprise. "Don't move, I've got an idea!" The boy turns on his heel and ducks speedily into the kitchen.

In Toby's absence, Mr. Todd takes a cautious step backward, never taking his eyes from the large black _thing _steadily making its way across the pie shop floor. He must admit to himself, it is quite possibly the biggest spider he has ever laid eyes upon, disturbingly so. Australia hadn't even housed insects that monstrous. Lips firmly pressed together, Todd alternates between eyeing Bloke warily from across the room and watching Anthony shift restlessly on top of the unstable wooden chair.

After a moment, Toby comes bounding breathlessly back into the room, and Mr. Todd has to fight to keep his jaw from dropping. The boy's head is nearly engulfed by a large mixing bowl that he can only guess is being used as some sort of helmet, and clenched in Toby's right fist is Mrs. Lovett's rolling pin.

Anthony gawks at him. "Is that really necessary? It seems like a bit much just to kill a spider."

There is grim determination in Toby's eyes as he lifts the bowl slightly away from his face and looks at Anthony. "You don't know this spider like I do. 'E's smart and 'e's really bloody fast; ain't no such thing as too much where Bloke is concerned, sir."

Shrugging, Anthony gestures toward the spider, as if giving the boy permission. "Be my guest then, Master Tobias."

Nodding once, lips pursed in a thin line, Toby creeps quietly toward the spider still making its treacherous journey toward the far side of the shop. Bloke doesn't seem to be aware that Toby is closing in on him, oblivious for once to everything but his destination. Tiptoeing nearer to the creature, Toby raises the rolling pin over his head, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth in concentration. Mr. Todd and Anthony can only stare, waiting with bated breath for the killing blow.

Right over top of the spider now, Toby draws in a deep breath and shouts, "This is for Mrs. Lovett!" He brings the pin down to smash the spider into the floor, intending to rid them of Bloke's presence once and for all, but he'd missed by mere inches. Growling in a way most similar to the barber behind him, Toby drops to his knees and raises the rolling pin again. It makes a splintering crack this time as it hits the floor, and Mr. Todd can see even from several feet away that there is now a generous split in the wood of the pin. He cannot hide a smirk as he thinks of Mrs. Lovett's ire over this injustice, and his own pleasure over the pin's demise, considering his most recent scuffle with the cooking instrument.

Panting, Toby collapses to the floor next to the pin, peering intently at the spot where it lies inches away. The spider is nowhere to be seen, but on the rolling pin is a dark splotch that Todd can only guess is what remains of the late Bloke. He is almost certain he hears a slight tremble in Toby's voice as he calls out, "Got 'im."

Satisfied that their latest predicament has been permanently dealt with, Anthony hops from his perch on the chair, wincing as it scrapes loudly across the floor as a result. "Well done Toby," he smiles at the boy, brushing himself off.

The boy nods but doesn't move, sniffling as he stares at the remains of his nemesis. "I'm sorry, Bloke," he sighs morosely.

Anthony's brow furrows, and he crosses the room to stand by Todd. They observe the child quietly for a few moments, watching him stroke the rolling pin tenderly. The sailor leans into Sweeney and whispers, "Did we miss something, Mr. Todd?"

Sweeney frowns. "Undoubtedly."

* * *

A/N - Firstly, I'm really sorry it took so long to get this up. I apologize for my completely and utterly epic fail. Hopefully you can forgive me:) Without Robynne and her mad editing skills, this chapter would not have been possible. Bow to her and her awesomeness. Then go read her stuff, because she's a fabulous writer and is currently working on a pretty freaking amazing Sweeney fic called In The Dark Beside You. Thank you all so much for your supportive reviews, I honestly don't know what I'd do without your comments to read. You're all ridiculously encouraging and I love you for it.

Thyme - Haha, Sweeney is pretty amusing when he doesn't know what he's doing. And I'm glad you liked Mrs. Lovett and Johanna's interaction. Johanna's character is so difficult for me. Anyway, thanks so much for reviewing!


	5. Where The Wild Things Are

_The Shadow Proves The Sunshine_

The stairwell leading down to the dungeons beneath the asylum is pitch black, lit only by the torch that Mr. Fogg holds out in front of him as he leads the way. The guards grip Nellie's arms painfully, an ache that is becoming quite familiar to her already, and she allows them to practically carry her down the long flight of stairs.

She doesn't allow herself to think of what punishment might await, because dwelling on the horrors that surely wait for her only makes her stomach churn uncomfortably and she would rather not heave all over Harlan's boots. The man already despises her, and the last thing she needs is one of the warden's henchmen holding a personal vendetta against her. As if reading her thoughts, Harlan edges his foot to the side just as she is lifting her foot to descend to another step, and she stumbles over the wayward limb, pitching forward. If not for the other guard grabbing hold of her waist and pulling her back, she surely would have tumbled right down the stone steps.

The guard gives Harlan a look. "She's already going to 'er punishment, quit being such a sadistic bastard."

"You care that much for the lunatics now, Oscar?" Harlan grunts in response, obviously not happy that his entertainment had just been thwarted.

Oscar snorts. "Course not. Don't feel like cleaning up 'er brains once they splatter all over the bottom of the stairs though, do I?"

Swallowing, Mrs. Lovett tries to ignore their conversation and manages the rest of the journey without further incident. As they reach the lowest level of the asylum, she looks around timidly, expecting something to reach out through the dark and strike her.

It is even darker in the basement than it had been in her cell upstairs, and she squints, waiting for her eyes to adjust so that she can get a better look around. The place is lit intermittently with torches, but seems brightest near the operating tables lined up against one wall. Some of the tables are empty, merely set up with medical tools next to them. But others are occupied by patients, trapped by leather straps, metal buckles, and even chains in some cases. Doctors hover over these tables, their medical bags next to them, wielding pointed-looking surgical instruments. The most disturbing part, Mrs. Lovett thinks, is that there is no screaming down here. It is a stark contrast to the chambers upstairs. The patients are silent, either unconscious or in pain well past the point of vocalization. Or perhaps some of them had been screaming for so long that they no longer have a voice to shout.

Eleanor feels a shudder course through her whole body, and she fights to keep her face blank as Mr. Fogg turns to look at her, smiling with something resembling fatherly affection. Holding out the arm gripping his torch, the warden gestures to a set of doors off to the side and the guards precede to the room he points to, dragging Mrs. Lovett with them.

The adjoining room is smaller than her cell, and sparsely furnished. There is one chair, sitting alone in the middle of the room. It is plain and wooden, but with a strange looking contraption attached to the top, almost like a vice. Nellie swallows hard, struggling to maintain her composure, and looks at the warden.

He smiles. "This isn't for you. Not today." Stepping further into the room, he places his hand on the back of the chair, regarding it with fondness. "This is the tranquility chair, my dear girl. It's where my children go when they need to calm down." Mr. Fogg glances up at her. "I have a feeling you will be spending a lot of time here, so I felt you should become acquainted with it."

Mrs. Lovett narrows her eyes. "I don't think I'd be too tranquil in that thing, dearie."

Chuckling, Mr. Fogg pats the back of the chair. "That's the beauty of it. You'll stay here until you are, however long that may be." He pauses, looking troubled. "One of my darlings nearly starved to death before I permitted her to be released."

"Must 'ave been a relief for 'er," Mrs. Lovett snips mockingly. "Gettin' 'er moldy bread and filthy water when she was free."

Mr. Fogg levels her with a reproving look. "Yes," he says quietly. "I see you spending quite a bit of time in here."

He walks swiftly to the door, passing her and the guards, leading them into the room two doors down. This room has a long table in a corner, a frail-looking chair in another and hanging on the wall are various weapons and unnamed instruments that look specifically designed for pain. There are whips, knives, chains, flails, saws and thumb screws. On an rickety shelf nailed to the wall is a line of small vials of many different colors, all filled with liquid and labeled accordingly.

The warden nods to Oscar and Harlan, and they release their tight hold on her arms. As they slowly back out of the room, leaving her alone with the Mr. Fogg, Nellie massages her sore arms with her fingers and fights against the dread filling the pit of her stomach.

Eyes on the wall and hands behind his back, Mr. Fogg addresses Eleanor while perusing his selection. "Have a seat, my child. This could take a while."

_--_

She is only half aware of where she is when Oscar and Harlan, having hauled her back up the stairs, finally deposit her onto a filthy floor covered in straw and dirt. She hits the ground hard, and the impact from their rough shove nearly knocks the breath out of her. Blinking blearily, Nellie doesn't bother to try raising her head and merely stares at the floor as the door slams shut behind the guards. Despite the grime covering the floor, the stones feel cool against her cheek and she closes her eyes again, hoping to drift off and ignore the dull, aching pain that seems to radiate from her whole body.

Trying to focus primarily on continuing to breathe, Mrs. Lovett lets out a feeble cough into the stone beneath her and stills again. She vaguely hears someone calling her name, but it sounds distant, too far away to concern her at the moment. Eyes just barely open, she catches a glimpse of a rat scurrying very close to her, and while she inwardly shudders in revulsion at her close proximity to the vermin, she cannot muster up the strength it would take to move away from it.

"Mrs. Lovett!"

The voice sounds very frantic now, and it doesn't seem to be going away anytime soon. Frowning - all she wants is to sleep - Nellie manages to raise her head slightly and murmur, "I'm fi - " before the coughing starts up again and she doesn't try to speak anymore.

The warden had decided to go with a tiny, clear vial on the shelf. She'd refused to swallow it willingly, so he'd called his guards back in, and they'd restrained her while Mr. Fogg had forced the vile concoction down her throat. It had tasted like cleaning chemicals, and burned her throat, making her gag. She'd been left feeling nauseous and dizzy, nearly unaware of her surroundings. After the drug had taken affect, Mr. Fogg had simply given her a sound lashing with the whip he'd had hanging on the wall for display.

Unfortunately, thanks to whatever strange drug he had dosed her with, Mrs. Lovett hadn't been aware of anything but the pain. It had been as though everything else was out of focus and numb, but the wretched crack of a leather whip against her exposed skin and the agony in her back had been intensified. It didn't help matters that she'd tripped on her way up the stairs, still dazed and drugged, and Harlan had delivered a swift kick to her ribs with his booted foot. None of her ribs feel broken, but Nellie is hardly an expert on the subject.

Suddenly aware of two strong hands on her upper arms lifting her to her feet, Mrs. Lovett groggily opens her eyes again and sees Claribel and Tilda limping with her to an unoccupied bed in the middle of the room. Emmy stands there, as if keeping watch and making sure none of the other lunatics try to sit there.

Mrs. Lovett shakes her head, struggling against their arms and the unrelenting dizziness that makes the room spin. "No," she says tiredly. "I don't want to lie down."

Losing her hold on the petite baker and catching her before she crumples to the floor, Tilda sighs noisily. "Then where do you want to go? The rats will eat you alive if we leave ya on the floor!"

Thinking hard through the fog in her head, Nellie remembers that she has a usual spot and a blonde companion to look after. "The bench," she says. Swatting at the two women, she grabs hold of the wall to support her. "I'm fine, loves." She tries to smile gratefully at them, but she isn't sure how well she manages in her current state. Sliding her hand along the wall as she slowly but surely makes her way to the corner of the room, Mrs. Lovett keeps her eyes on the floor to watch her footing and keep the world around her from spinning.

When her knees come in contact with the familiar bench, she turns and collapses onto it with a pained groan. Pressing her stinging back to the cool brick and sighing when it brings a small amount of relief, Eleanor slowly turns her head to the side to peer through the wall at her newfound charge. The girl is looking at her with wide, frightened eyes, fingers curled into the brick and face pressed to the wall.

"Are you alright?" She whispers, her voice quivering.

Closing her eyes, Mrs. Lovett nods and struggles to keep her voice from sounding slurred. "Just fine, Jo darlin'." She lets out a steadying breath through her nose. "The warden just taught me a lesson is all. I'll never steal moldy bread again." She smirks lightly, but upon hearing Johanna sniffle next to her, she sighs. "They won't be servin' any meals today, though. Take that food I gave you and eat a piece of bread."

When she doesn't get a response, Nellie opens her eyes to see Johanna shaking her head slowly. "No, I had an apple last night. I'll be fine."

"Silly girl," Mrs. Lovett scolds gently. "An apple is 'ardly enough for a young girl like you, used to havin' three nice meals every day." She lowers her voice and says, "Your Anthony is gonna be 'ere to rescue ya soon, and you'll need to keep up your strength to make any sort of escape."

The girl seems to waver at the mention of Anthony and getting out of this abysmal place. "But what about you? You haven't eaten a thing."

The mere thought of food is enough to make her want to retch, so Nellie scoffs, the lie rolling off her tongue smoothly. "Course I 'ave. The warden tossed me a bit of bread after my punishment." She makes a face. "Bloody disgustin', it was."

Johanna smiles. "Yes, well, I've certainly had better." Reaching beneath her bench, she brings out the kerchief, unwraps it and takes out a piece of bread, before stowing the bundle away again.

In between nibbling on the bread, Mrs. Lovett notices, the girl continues to throw uncertain glances in her direction. Johanna is obviously still concerned with her well-being, and Eleanor is in no mood to indulge sympathy. "Love?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Y'know 'ow I told you a story last night?" She begins quietly, and her voice sounds raw even to her own ears. When Johanna nods timidly, she continues. "Well, what say you return the favor, eh?"

Swallowing a mouthful, Johanna looks at her lap. "I'm afraid I don't know any stories, Mrs. Lovett."

Nellie smiles at the girl. "Well you seem awfully convinced I didn't make up _my _story, so why don't you tell me one of your own. Somethin' true."

Looking ashamed of herself, Johanna studies the bit of bread left in her hands. "The only true stories I have are about myself. I don't leave Judge Turpin's home very often, and I don't have friends."

"That's just as good," Mrs. Lovett beams. "I don't want to 'ear about anyone but you, anyway."

Johanna talks for the better part of half an hour, speaking of her childhood and being raised by her nanny until she turned twelve. Judge Turpin, for his part, had never abused the girl in any way, which Mrs. Lovett can only be grateful for. All in all, it appears the girl has been alone for most of her life, seeing the Judge for dinner occasionally, but oftentimes taking meals on her own when Turpin worked late into the evening. He forbids her to talk with the household maids, and had released Johanna's nanny from her duties many years ago. Mrs. Lovett feels pity for the girl, knowing how little contact she has had with the outside world.

"Judge Turpin told me once that my mother had been beautiful, and that my father had been a foolish man." Johanna stops, frowning. "He would never answer when I asked _why _he had been foolish. But he did say that my father had been a barber."

It comes as a surprise to Mrs. Lovett that Turpin had revealed anything at all to Johanna, but she imagines Johanna must have been terribly persistent in her quest for answers. " 'E told you all that, did 'e?" She asks, trying to sound as if she hadn't already known these things.

"Yes," Johanna's brow furrows. "But that's about all. Judge Turpin never disclosed much about my life before he took me in, but he always says that if he hadn't rescued me, I would be a pie maker's apprentice by now." Studying her hands, the girl scowls as fiercely as possible for someone so gentle. "I think I should like to make a pie, if I knew how. It sounds like it would be much more fun than embroidery."

Stifling a chuckle, Mrs. Lovett gives the girl a weary smile. "Oh, love. I can 'elp you whip up a pie, if that's what you want. S'my speciality, it is."

Johanna looks pleasantly surprised. "You make pies, Mrs. Lovett?"

She nods. "Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pies on Fleet Street, darlin'."

Johanna brightens at this, her smile brilliant. "I used to live on Fleet Street, you know."

Freezing in place, Mrs. Lovett fights to maintain a casual air. "You don't say."

The girl nods enthusiastically, not taking notice of the baker's sudden stiffness. "Once, when I was supposed to be upstairs doing my knitting, I overheard Judge Turpin talking to Beadle Bamford. He mentioned the street and I always meant to go there - perhaps on a walk with my governess."

Johanna pauses, pursing her lips. "He rarely lets me go for walks anymore. He used to, when I was younger. Sometimes he would even accompany me instead of my governess, but then one day, he just stopped allowing me. It feels as if I've been locked in that house like some sort of caged bird, since the day I turned fourteen." Her troubled look disappears suddenly, and she smiles at Mrs. Lovett. "What is it like? Fleet Street, I mean."

Eleanor sighs, closing her eyes and trying to ignore the pounding in her head and the aching in her back in order to focus on the girl and her question. "Much like any other street, I'd imagine." Whatever substance the warden had given her has mostly worn off by now, and the room is slowly coming back into focus. The pain, however, is still very new and she wonders how long it will be before she can move without wincing. Her breathing isn't laborious or rasping, so she is fairly certain Harlan had not broken a rib when he'd kicked her. She supposes she has her corset to thank for that.

The soft voice of Johanna pulls her from her musings, and she manages to catch the words, "How long have you lived on Fleet Street?"

"A while," she answers truthfully. "About twenty years."

This bit of information seems to excite the young girl, and she asks eagerly, "Do you think you might have known my mother and father?"

_Yes_. She wants to tell Johanna, she _really _does, but it seems like something Mr. Todd should tell his daughter, when or if he decides to. So instead, she swallows the word she desperately wants to say and replies with, "I dunno, love. I might 'ave. S'hard to say."

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"Hmm?"

"How am I to trust you if you're not honest with me?" Johanna asks, her voice quiet and reproving.

Eleanor cannot hold in a small chuckle. "You think I'm lyin' to ya, love?"

Johanna nods, looking very sure of herself. "I've noticed that your voice becomes more..._nonchalant_ than it usually is when you are trying to hide something. It's how I know you're hurting worse from your punishment than you want to admit."

Mrs. Lovett can only be grateful the girl's father is not nearly so astute. Sighing in resignation, she breathes, "You 'ave your father's eyes, little Jo."

She only hears Johanna's sharp intake of breath before the doors to the rooms containing both redheads and blondes bang open, and guards enter, carrying water for the lunatics. Grateful that Harlan is nowhere to be seen, Nellie allows herself to relax just a little. Oscar reaches her last, and she holds out her hand for the cup filled with dirty water, frowning. "Wouldn't 'appen to 'ave any gin in there, would ya, love?"

Oscar's mouth lifts into a half-grin, and he shakes his head. "Sorry ma'am. Don't believe I got any on me."

"Pity," she murmurs, putting her cup aside to be given to someone else later. She isn't in the mood to contract some sort of fatal disease from that sewage. From the corner of her eye, she sees Johanna staring at her over her own cup, sipping tentatively. Probably still in shock over this latest revelation. "Say, you wouldn't 'appen to know when we're gettin' fed again, would ya?"

Oscar pauses in his trek across the room to the door and turns to face her. "Well, today's Sunday, an' that's open house day. The warden'll want everyone in a particularly nasty mood, since it's more entertaining for people...So probably not till Monday morning."

Smothering her disgust at such a notion, Mrs. Lovett nods distractedly and Oscar exits the cell, locking the door behind him. A sudden thought occurs to her as she stares dubiously into her full cup of water, and Eleanor places her hand over her mouth to cover her smirk. _Open house_. The perfect time to make some sort of escape attempt, the perfect time to disappear in the midst of the crowds and confusion. Something tells her she'll be seeing Mr. Todd before the day is out.

_--_

Bedlam is just as imposing and dark as the rumors surrounding it. The central part of the building, where visitors and asylum workers come and go, is supported by imposing ivory columns. Bleached white stone steps lead up to the entrance, and the gilded, ancient double doors are shrouded in shadow. The length of the building cannot be fathomed, but it looks to be about three floors tall. The entire structure seems designed to give off an air of intimidation, and the dark symbol of madness sitting quietly on the end of Bishopsgate succeeds in doing just that. Gazing up at the magnificent stone structure, Sweeney can only wonder how the bloody hell he is going to find Mrs. Lovett in that labyrinth.

Scowling at the building, Mr. Todd addresses his companions quietly, "Remember the plan?"

Anthony, walking on his right side, nods as they continue to walk toward the imposing structure along with several other Londoners ready to gawk at the lunatics. "When you've located Mrs. Lovett and I have found Johanna, Tobias will create a diversion to distract everyone from the cells while we pick the locks. Once Mrs. Lovett and Johanna are free, we simply slip from the building in all the confusion Toby has created, and walk away." He pauses, frowning. "Are you sure this will work, Mr. Todd?"

Setting his jaw, Sweeney glances around the cluttered cobblestone lane and says, "It has to."

Scurrying along on his other side, Toby has his hands shoved into his pockets and stares glumly at his feet as they walk. "Why can't I rescue Mrs. Lovett while _you _create a distraction?" Toby glances up at Sweeney. " 'Ow am I supposed to distract all those people with you and Mr. 'ope runnin' around with two o' their prisoners? It ain't like I got anythin' to work with!" He pauses, looking thoughtful. "Y'know, you could always just walk in there and wave yer razor around, scare 'em into lettin' mum go."

Sweeney turns on the boy with a glare that immediately silences him. The child is lucky he hadn't gone with his first instinct and just locked him in the bakehouse for the duration of this venture. There is also a slim chance that someone will recognize the boy, considering all the racket he'd made when they'd taken Mrs. Lovett away. Mr. Todd eyes the cap shadowing the boy's face from prying eyes, and hopes it will be enough to discourage recognition. "If you can't think of anything distracting to do, I'll propose a trade for the warden," he snaps. "You for Mrs. Lovett."

Toby pales at this, obviously believing every word of it, despite the fact that they both know Mrs. Lovett would never stand for such a thing. Sweeney Todd would find a way to make it happen if he truly wanted to, despite any protestations from the formidable baker.

As they approach the doors to the asylum, civilians are crowding through the doorway, some of them shouldering their way to the front of the line. The warden stands just inside the door, greeting visitors with a slimy smile and taking their shilling of admittance. "Welcome," he says, shaking hands with a thin man standing in front of Sweeney. "Will you be visiting the women's wing today, or the men's?"

The two continue to converse, and Toby adjusts his hat further over his face and keeps his head bowed, hoping to slip past the warden unnoticed. Sweeney feels oddly nervous as Mr. Fogg sends the other man on his way, but he pushes the feeling aside and steps up to the warden, dropping three shillings into the detestable man's palm.

Mr. Fogg smiles unpleasantly and asks, "The women's wing, or the men's?"

He finds himself unable to respond, his sharp eyes studying Mr. Fogg's neck. It's a thin throat, Mr. Todd muses while he watches the warden's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows. His hand itches to draw near to the razor in his pocket, to flick it open and draw cold silver against Mr. Fogg's unworthy neck, to watch the blood seep and spurt, spraying everything close enough in wondrous red. It would be so easy to extinguish the life of this miserable insect. Of its own accord, his fingers slip inside his pocket and close around cool metal.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Sweeney blinks and turns to see Anthony behind him, giving him a concerned look before smiling gently at the warden. "The women, if you please."

Mr. Fogg is eyeing Sweeney uneasily, but nods and gestures to the right, where a guard stands, surrounded by several others. "Right that way," he says, hand unconsciously drifting to his throat and rubbing. "Ernest will take you where you wish."

Anthony gives his thanks and turns to the barber as they walk away. "Mr. Todd? Are you feeling alright?"

He nods, eyes fixed stonily ahead. The guard, Ernest, looks strangely familiar and Sweeney realizes he is one the guards that had hauled Mrs. Lovett into the carriage outside the pie shop. He addresses the crowd gathered around him, and as they get closer, his gruff words become more clear. "Oi, listen 'ere. Last Sunday, one of ya thought it would be funny to give yer stick to a lunatic and they attacked a bleedin' guard with it! So this week, we've doubled security and you're going in groups of ten. If we so much as _think _we see a lunatic with a weapon, it's double the fee for next week!"

The groans of annoyance and murmurs of disgruntled citizens is audible, but Sweeney doesn't notice, too busy swearing vehemently under his breath. He grabs hold of Toby's sleeve and begins yanking the boy toward the back of the crowd. Anthony follows after them obediently, looking troubled. Lining up behind everyone else to be divided into groups, the trio looks significantly put out.

Speaking through his teeth, Anthony says, "What now?"

Glowering darkly at the floor beneath his cap, Toby says sullenly, "It's impossible now, if we're goin' to be watched like soddin' hawks. Double security? Bloody 'ell!" He kicks at the floor irritably with the toe of his shoe.

Mr. Todd doesn't answer for a while, scowling at nothing in particular as he glances about his surroundings. The asylum is as dark on the inside as it is on the outside, foreboding and smelling of mildew. The dankness seems heavy, almost seeping into the bones, rendering one's movements sloth-like, as if weighed down by the very atmosphere. His jaw clenches tightly as he seethes over Turpin sending his Johanna to such a place. Even Mrs. Lovett, with all her cheeriness, is probably having a difficult time maintaining her good faith in this hell hole.

Anthony and Toby look at him expectantly, and he curses their terrible luck. It's suicide to try anything drastic today, not when the amount of guards has been doubled and the crowd has been divided up into smaller groups. The new, more organized approach to the asylum's Sunday visiting hours has put a rather large dent in their plans, and at the moment, Sweeney is without an alternate scheme. He finally replies quietly, "Keep your eyes open, try to remember where things are. No one is getting out today."

Crestfallen, Toby heaves a great sigh, slouching his shoulders in his annoyance. "Of all the bloody days to try somethin' different," he spits out distastefully, brow furrowed.

Anthony runs a hand through sandy colored locks, clenching his hair in a fist and gritting his teeth. He closes his other hand into a fist and strikes the stone wall with it, looking the closest to losing his composure that Sweeney has ever seen the even-tempered youth. Shaking his head in frustration, Anthony takes a steadying breath and finally says, "I suppose I should find Johanna and tell her I haven't given up."

A sudden though occurs to Mr. Todd and he mutters under his breath, "Go with Anthony, boy. Don't want to draw attention to ourselves or Mrs. Lovett."

Toby scowls darkly at this but Sweeney's tone leaves no room for discussion, and the child says nothing. Moving along in the line, part of the second group, the trio stops just in front of the guard, Ernest. Glancing up at the guard warily, Toby's eyes widen, "Blimey," he mutters to the burly man. " 'Ow'd you get that shiner?"

The area around the man's right eye is an ugly purple, almost deep enough to be considered blue. It stands out spectacularly against the man's pale skin, making him appear even more grisly and threatening. Making a face at Toby, Ernest grumbles under his breath, "Stupid redheaded lunatic..."

Surprise lighting his features, Toby grins up at Mr. Todd, and the man's mouth twitches slightly in response.

Ernest pays them no mind, clearing his throat and calling out, "Alright you lot. Whoever wants to see pretty women, come with me." Turning, he strides from the main room and leads the small crowd down a long, dark corridor. The putrid smell of the filthy unfortunates residing within becomes more noticeable the deeper they go into the asylum. By the time they reach a narrow, damp hallway a few minutes later, Toby has his shirt sleeve over his nose and mouth, and Anthony's lips are twisted in disgust.

Outside the cell doors is a guard for each room, and peering through the bars, Sweeney can see that the lunatics are already cowering, waiting for the visitors they know to be coming. As he moves closer to the cells, he comes to the realization that the redheads and the blondes are right next to each other. He doesn't understand why, but this fills him with a sense of comfort. With a wall separating them, proximity means nothing, but something in him calms just a little at knowing Mrs. Lovett and his Johanna are near one another. It is something to note, in any case. It will be useful when re-planning their escape later this evening.

Passing by the cell containing numerous yellow-haired infirm, Mr. Todd glances inside, hoping to catch a glimpse of Johanna. He sees only wild-eyed strangers and continues on his way, gaze flickering instead to the room containing redheads. He stops in his tracks when, lifting his eyes to the barred door, he finds Mrs. Lovett standing behind it, leaning unsteadily into its weight. The corners of her mouth lift into a thin, delighted smile when he spots her and he watches as she pulls away from the door hesitantly, as if trying to keep her balance without it. As others crowd around him, gawking inside at the insane patients and even going so far as to slide sticks through the bars to poke at the more unresponsive inmates, Sweeney studies Mrs. Lovett surreptitiously. She looks tired, the rings under her eyes more prominent. The curls tumbling down her back are tangled and knotted, quite a contrast to the last time he'd seen her, when they'd been liquid fire around her face. Dirt is smeared on her cheek and on the skirts of her dress, and there is a small cut just below her hairline, at her temple. Her pallor is closer to a pasty white, more like the color of a fabric than actual human skin. He frowns, eyeing the way she holds herself stiffly, without her usual unflappable grace. She meets his gaze easily enough, but her eyes are guarded. It reminds him of the way Lucy used to look when she'd bought something expensive and didn't want him - _Benjamin _- to find out. If he didn't know better, he would say Mrs. Lovett is hiding something from him.

Weaving his way through the large group of people huddled around the cell, pointing and giggling at a young redhead curled up on the floor, Mr. Todd makes his way to the front of the crowd and stands just inches from Mrs. Lovett. They stare at each other, and the petite baker shifts restlessly, obviously needing to speak with him and unable to do so with a guard standing right next to the door, watching everyone closely. Sweeney is at a loss, there is no way to convey any sort of message to her without someone overhearing.

Next door, just a few feet away, Anthony is peering anxiously through the bars of the blonde room, biting down on his bottom lip. Around him, others are laughing and calling out to the lunatics, encouraging them to do something funny. Beside Anthony, Toby is watching Sweeney closely through narrowed eyes. Almost as if he senses the barber's distress, he takes a tentative step forward. When Mr. Todd doesn't glare at him in return, Toby begins walking slowly toward the guard standing next to the cell. Sweeney doesn't miss the way Mrs. Lovett brightens at the boy's presence, grinning like a silly little girl. Toby refuses to look at her, not wanting to give himself away to the surly guard standing at attention.

Looking the much taller man up and down, Toby eyes the firearm strapped to his side and says rather loudly, "Cripes! That's some weapon ya got there, sir." He pauses, deliberating with a frown on his young face. "Mind if I take a closer look at it?"

"Yes," the guard growls, spitting on the floor.

Toby grimaces, then lets out a whistle, shaking his head. "Yep, a bloody good weapon. But if you don't mind my sayin' so, I think my father's gun is bigger." He grins. " 'E says 'e could take any one of the Bedlam guards any day of the week! What do you say to that?"

The guard glares down at Toby, but the boy merely squints up at him, unfazed. "I'd say your father's off 'is rocker, boy." He snorts and mumbles, "Maybe 'e belongs in 'ere too."

Toby's mouth opens in outrage and his hands ball into fists at his sides. "Are you callin' me dad a looney? 'Ow dare ya!"

It doesn't take Sweeney long to realize that Toby is creating a diversion, distracting the guard in order to give Mr. Todd time to speak very briefly with Mrs. Lovett. He grumbles quietly under his breath as he steps up to the cell, hating any reason to be grateful to the brat.

As soon as he is within earshot, Mrs. Lovett presses her face between the bars and looks up at him with pleading eyes, fingers curled around the iron bars of the cell. "Get me the 'ell out of 'ere, love! It's bloody catchin'," she hisses. "I'm goin' bonkers in 'ere! I played a game of Twenty-One without any bleedin' cards!"

Ignoring her dramatics, he says lowly, "We're trying. Johanna is in here as well, right next - "

"Yes, I know," she interrupts urgently. "There's a 'ole in the wall, I been talkin' to her."

His eyebrows raise in surprise, and then it dawns on him that Mrs. Lovett has been talking to his little girl. "What have you been saying?" He bites out suspiciously.

Her eyes widen in what she must think is innocence. "Nothin' that ain't true, dearie." Seeing the way his jaw clenches at these words, she sighs wearily. "Don't worry, Mr. T. I'm watchin' over 'er."

Sweeney has no doubt that Mrs. Lovett is doing her best to mother Johanna in every way possible; Johanna's well-being is not his main concern at the moment. The only thing troubling him about this arrangement is all the things Mrs. Lovett knows that Johanna does not. Would she really tell his daughter everything? Surely even Mrs. Lovett has more sense than that. He doesn't have time to threaten her, so instead, he says, "We planned on trying something today. It won't work." He grinds his teeth together in frustration. "I need more time."

"Oh by all means," Mrs. Lovett says dryly. "Take all the bloody time ya need, Mr. T."

His eyes snap up to hers, and the biting retort is on the tip of his tongue, when he sees it. His hand shoots out quite unexpectedly to her neck through the bars, and he watches her flinch violently against his touch. Ignoring her, he squints in the dim light, fingers lightly tracing the faint ring of bruises lacing her neck. "What is this?" He asks quietly, and he finds it miraculous that she even hears the softly spoken words.

"Oh," Mrs. Lovett waves him away dismissively. "Guard tried to strangle me."

He vaguely registers a crowd gathering around Toby and the guard as the boy continues to make a fuss, shouting something to the effect of, _'My father's a good man, 'e is!'_, but Mr. Todd barely hears him over the deafening roar in his own head. Of their own accord, his hands tighten into fists, his throat nearly closes up, and his whole body seems to tense, as if ready to pounce on a predator. The outrage is baffling. He doesn't understand his own reaction, he only knows the very strong desire to find this damnable guard and rip out his throat for daring to touch his - He stops suddenly, drawing in a sharp breath and snatching his hand away from her skin, as if burned. Mrs. Lovett is _not _his. He doesn't even want her. Her plans, her shrewd, calculating mind, her assistance in his crimes, yes. All of that he wants, but not _her_.

She looks at him, head cocked curiously to one side. Her bruises are more prominent in this position, and he averts his eyes to the sight, trying to reign in his temper. He reaches into his pocket without thinking, his fingers brushing against the comforting silver of his razor. Glancing around inconspicuously, he determines that no one is paying them any mind, not even the guards, thanks to Toby. Sliding the razor from his pocket, he slips it into Mrs. Lovett's cold, pale hand. Her eyes widen in surprise as he closes her fingers around it and mumbles, "Keep it. Might come in handy."

Mrs. Lovett looks at him like she knows exactly what it must take for him to leave one of his razors in the care of someone else, to trust another person with something that is precious to him, and he bristles at the look she is giving him. "Mr. T," she whispers, tears pricking her eyes. "Thank you."

"Don't use it to do anything stupid," he snaps gruffly. "I'll get you out, _be patient._"

Her grip around his razor tightens, and she draws her hand to her chest protectively. Meeting his gaze with her own, she says softly, "Don't worry Mr. Todd. I'll look after your li'tle girl."

He refrains from telling her to look after herself as well. It would sound too much like he cares.

* * *

A/N - Thank you all for being so patient, and for your lovely reviews. I tell you all the time how much I appreciate the feedback, but I just want you all to know that it really means a lot that you take time to leave a review and tell me what you think. Big, huge THANKS goes to Robynne, without whom I would be lost, and this story would suck:D Go read her amazing stuff! OK, I start college classes tomorrow and I'm not sure about the workload yet, so I don't know how long my next update will take. Please be patient and know that I would much rather be writing this story than working on papers and algebra, but I don't really have a choice. Haha Until next time!


	6. They Figured She Had To Be Daft

The Shadow Proves The Sunshine

"His hair. He doesn't like anyone to talk about his hair."

Mrs. Lovett snorts, closing her eyes to the sight of her new friends sitting cross-legged on one of several dingy cots against the wall. "Don't ya mean 'is _lack _of 'air?"

Tilda gives out a short bark of laughter, but Mrs. Lovett doesn't bother opening her tired eyes to look. "You're cruel, the lot of you."

"Well we 'ave to do something to pass the time," Eleanor reasons. "What better way to entertain ourselves than makin' the warden bloody bonkers?" She opens her eyes, fixing her gaze on the short haired woman. "Unless you've got somethin' better...?"

Studying her grimy hands with something akin to boredom, Tilda merely shrugs. "I have no problem driving the warden to madness. I just felt someone should be the voice of reason for a moment. We'll be beaten, or worse."

Claribel, combing her fingers through her tangled locks, smiles widely. "That's half the fun, dear friend. It'll be like...testing the boundaries. See how far we can push him before he loses his temper."

"Exactly," Nellie beams at her.

"Count me in," Emmy says, without bothering to lift her head from where she lays, sprawled out on the floor in front of the bed.

Mrs. Lovett can only wonder how she keeps the rats, or the other lunatics from creeping too close. "Excellent," she says, looking to Tilda. "Well? Are you in or out, love?"

Sighing heavily, as though burdened beyond what she can carry, Tilda busies herself with smoothing down her dirt-encrusted hair and says, "Alright. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"No offense dearie," Eleanor says dryly. "But I think we're willin' to risk it."

After open house had come to an end, the warden had flitted from room to room, administering candies and sweets to those who had reportedly behaved well for their visitors. As if out of sheer dislike for the women who give him the most trouble, Mr. Fogg had passed right over Mrs. Lovett, Emmy, Tilda and Claribel. Johanna had been given a toffee, and for that Nellie had been grateful. However, with an empty stomach and a heavy heart, it hadn't taken long for a revenge plot to form in her head.

They needed a game to play, she'd decided. A way to keep their minds occupied and the madness at arms length. And what better way to do so than to torture their _beloved _warden? It's simple yet terribly brilliant, and Mrs. Lovett mentally pats her own back for coming up with it. She likes to call it, 'Pushing The Warden's Buttons'. It will be entertaining for a while, at least.

"Well then," Claribel says, pulling Nellie from her inner musings. "We'll begin that little endeavor in the morning. But for now...who do you think it will be tonight?"

"Myrtle," Emmy offers instantly. "It's definitely going to be Myrtle tonight."

Claribel looks unimpressed. "You say it's going to be Myrtle every night."

"Well I have a good feeling about tonight," Emmy says stubbornly, refusing to budge from her usual choice.

It is another game, one that the three women had come up with long before Nellie had joined them. They take turns guessing which patient is going to snap and have some sort of mental breakdown. Nellie has played with them twice and lost both times. It has taught her a lesson. One never knows what is truly going on in a person's mind. "Winnifred," she offers, after sizing up the room and determining that the girl chained to the wall, drawing patterns in the dirt-dusted floor with her fingers is the one most likely to have a fit of some kind.

Tilda shakes her head. "No, it's Hester. She's been mumbling to herself for the better part of an hour!"

As the women continue to discuss their choice for the night, Mrs. Lovett turns gingerly to look at Johanna. Her back still aches terribly, and she can hardly move without wincing in pain. It had taken every bit of her acting ability not to fall into a heap at Mr. Todd's feet earlier. She couldn't let him see how much it hurt, not when she needed to be strong and look after his daughter.

Johanna sits primly, her back ramrod straight as she folds and refolds the wax wrapping from her piece of toffee. Her pretty mouth is set firmly in a frown, and her golden locks fall into her face as she bends over the little paper in her lap.

"Love?" Eleanor reaches through the wall and stays the girl's hands with her own.

Startled, Johanna glances up at her with wide eyes. "Mrs. Lovett?"

Eleanor gives her a motherly smile and tilts her head to the side. "You want to take a guess?" When Johanna's brow furrows, she explains herself. "Y'know, 'bout which one's goin' to lose 'er 'ead and go barkin' mad for a spell. Well...more so than usual."

"Oh," Johanna bites at her lip timidly. "I don't think I ought to - "

"Nonsense," Mrs. Lovett insists with a wink. "It's fun, I promise."

Johanna seems to debate silently with herself for a moment before giving Mrs. Lovett a small smile. "Well...I suppose it wouldn't hurt." Leaning close and peering inside the room, she scans the cell for several moments, critically eyeing every patient. Finally, she points to the girl with choppy, bright red hair who is sitting on her knees in the middle of the room, staring blankly into space, unmoving. "Her, I think."

Nellie gives the girl an appraising look before turning to Johanna. "Florence. An interesting choice."

"Interesting, but not likely," Claribel calls from the other side of the cell. "She hasn't moved for quite some time. They're usually very jumpy when they're about to crack."

Johanna purses her lips for a moment before replying quietly, "We shall see."

Eleanor hides a proud smile behind her hand. It is good to have the girl interacting with them again. Johanna has been very quiet since Mr. Todd and Anthony had left hours ago, dragging Toby with them. She can't say she blames the girl, considering her unsettling encounter with Mr. Todd. When the barber had turned from the redhead room to collect the sailor and Toby so they could be on their way, he had walked up to Anthony and stopped right in his tracks upon seeing Johanna standing there, just inside the barred door.

They had stared at each other for a long moment, and then Mr. Todd had turned away, swallowing hard as he moved to grab Toby by the collar and haul him away from his rather disruptive scuffle with the asylum guard. It had been the first time Mr. Todd had laid eyes on his daughter since she was a mere infant. The thought is enough to form a lump in Mrs. Lovett's throat even now. She can't imagine what it must be like for him, seeing his child all grown up - knowing he hadn't raised her, that another man had taken that from him. It is so easy to sympathize with his gruff nature when she remembers why he is the way he is.

Sighing breathlessly as she thinks of Mr. Todd, Eleanor slips her fingers into the bodice of her dress and discreetly pulls out the razor concealed within. He had given her his_ razor_. She still cannot think the words without a giddy smile coming to her lips. Mr. Todd trusts her with something he cherishes above all else, and this means more to her than he will probably ever realize. Nellie has yet to fathom his motives for giving it to her, no matter how blissful the action has made her. Did he give it to her merely so she could protect herself and Johanna?

Or maybe it is because he isn't coming for her. The razor is only a parting gift, a way to make up for not being able to spring her from the asylum. Perhaps Mr. Todd doesn't _want _to get her out. What reason would he possibly have for doing so anyway? Their last real conversation hadn't been a pleasant one, and the only reason she is even in here is because she had tried to beat Mr. Todd senseless with her rolling pin. He is probably glad to be rid of her, glad to have the blessed silence he craves, the silence he was always robbed of when she was around. She can see him now, brooding away in his shop, gazing in peace at the photograph of his wife and infant daughter.

It would only make sense for Mr. Todd to assist Anthony in freeing Johanna, and leave her here to rot. He will deposit Toby back at the workhouse and be free to brood away the rest of his life. And this razor is the only thing she will have left of him. She knows she is being absurd, that Mr. Todd wouldn't ever leave his razor in her care if he thought he would never see it again. Still, the thought is an unsettling one.

She admires the single razor in the fading light of day, turning it over in her hand idly. It is the epitome of beautiful craftsmanship - she has memorized every groove and etching in the design by now. She had climbed the steps to Benjamin Barker's shop once every month to give them a good polish. She can still vividly recall the day Judge Turpin had come for Johanna, and the way she'd scrambled to hide the precious silver from his lecherous paws. She only regrets that she couldn't do the same for the child.

A blood-curdling shriek from somewhere down the corridor interrupts Nellie's musings, and she jumps at the sound, flattening herself against the wall. This movement causes the stone behind her to scrape against her back, and she grimaces, biting down on her tongue to keep from crying out.

Without moving an inch from her self-proclaimed spot on the dirty floor, Emmy says, "That was Anne."

"No," Tilda shakes her head. "That was Jane. Anne's scream is higher."

Another game, one Nellie had come up with the night before called, 'Identify the Scream'. It doesn't take much to entertain those who are truly bored. The screams tend to frighten Johanna, and Mrs. Lovett steals a glance at the girl to find her already staring back.

"What's the matter Jo?" She asks softly, in too much pain to raise her voice any higher. "Somethin' on your mind?"

Johanna flounders for a moment in silent consideration. It seems she cannot keep this to herself any longer. "The story you told me, you said it was true." She looks to Mrs. Lovett, who nods in tired agreement. "You knew them. You knew them, and you knew my father..."

Alarmed at where Johanna's train of thought seems to be taking her, Eleanor tightens her fingers around Mr. Todd's razor and says in what she is sure must be a high, panicked voice, "It's gettin' awful late, dearie. Why don't you try and get some sleep? We'll talk later, eh?"

"I think you know more than you want me to think. The family," Johanna continues, unfazed. "A man, a woman and a child. What were their names?"

"I don't remember," Nellie lies, and Johanna's eyes narrow.

"What were their names, Mrs. Lovett?"

Nellie sighs wearily. Mr. Todd will happily slit her throat when he finds out what she's done. Her and her big mouth - she should never have told Johanna that story. "Barker. Benjamin, Lucy and lit'le Johanna Barker." She chances a look at Johanna and finds her still staring, her face a perfect mask of calm. Her eyes can be just as expressionless as her father's - Mrs. Lovett has no idea whether the girl is surprised by this revelation or not. She wonders if Johanna's expression would change if she found out that she is probably sitting in the same room her mother had been locked away in after the poison addled her mind.

"You knew me," Johanna breathes. "As a child."

Eleanor smiles wistfully, deciding that Mr. Todd is surely going to kill her and it no longer matters what she says. "Such a pretty thing you were."

No longer able to remain emotionless, Johanna's eyes fill up with tears. Wrapping her arms around herself, she rests her head against the wall between them. "Where are they, Mrs. Lovett? Where are my parents?"

Reaching out, Nellie runs the back of her hand along Johanna's smooth cheek tenderly. Her voice is soft but strong as she confirms the girl's fears. "Just as I said in the story, love. Your mother, in 'er grief, poisoned 'erself and left you in my care."

"What about my father?" There is an odd note to Johanna's voice, like she already knows the answer.

Nellie stiffens, drawing her hand back to her side. "Never saw Benjamin Barker again."

Pain flashes in Johanna's eyes before she closes them tightly and lets out a soft sigh. The silence between them stretches on for several, long minutes before she speaks again. "That's why Judge Turpin always said I would be making pies if not for him...I was supposed to be with you. If my mother left me in your care, how did I end up with Judge Turpin?"

Mrs. Lovett purses her lips, hating that in order to stop Johanna's ceaseless questions - she is beginning to understand why Turpin had given her the information he had - she has to relive some rather painful memories. Those first months after Benjamin had been taken away were the lowest point in her entire life, she'd lost the only family she had. It is a time she would rather forget. "I kept you for a couple of months," she finally answers quietly. "During all of the confusion over your mother's...death. But the judge eventually came for you, told me 'e was takin' you on as 'is ward. Felt guilty, I suppose, for 'is part in your mother's suicide." Her lip curls in a sneer. "Or maybe he simply wanted to replace Lucy with the closest thing to her."

Johanna swallows audibly, but refuses to open her eyes. "Why didn't you keep me? Did you want Judge Turpin to raise me?"

Nellie feels a pang in her heart, wretched that Johanna would think she'd wanted her in the hands of that vile man. "Course not, love. I didn't rightly 'ave a choice. There was no official documentation, Lucy left no will. It was the judge's word against mine. 'E took you away and there was nothin' I could do about it." She sighs shakily, willing away the memory of a crying babe being ripped from her arms and carried off to the ornate carriage waiting outside. "Missed you somethin' awful, I did. Always wanted a child of my own, an' you were the closest I'd ever come."

She is so grateful that Toby had come into her life and given her another chance to know what it's like to have a child, to be a mother to someone. He is far more than she deserves, such a good boy. He would gladly do anything she asked of him, even sit up with her until the wee hours of the morning hunting down an insignificant spider. Toby indulges her eccentricities, and for that, Eleanor is grateful. She misses him, especially late at night, when the lunatics are humming their haunting melodies and the guards have stopped making their rounds. Thoughts of her odd little family always creep in when it's quiet.

Thinking now of her adopted son, she wonders how he is getting on without her. He has no one to read to him, or make sure he gets into bed on time, or cook his meals. Lord knows Mr. Todd certainly won't do any of that. She only hopes the barber is treating her son decently and hasn't locked him in the bakehouse by now. Toby had looked relatively healthy when she'd seen him this afternoon; there had been no obvious signs of abuse from her aggressive tenant. Mental scars, however, are not visible.

She is only glad that the boy hadn't been there to witness what had happened only minutes after Mr. Todd had dragged him away. One of the visitors had slid a long, sharply pointed stick through the bars and aimed it right at her. She'd caught it in her hand, yanked it from the man's grasp, and he'd soon found himself on the receiving end of a rather violent jab to the ribs. She hadn't gotten away with it, of course. Harlan had seen it happen, and her jaw is still sore from the way he'd smacked her.

Johanna has been silent for nearly an hour and Nellie has all but given up on her speaking again before the night is out. All of the information she has received has probably sent the girl into a state of shock. It comes as a surprise when, just as she is able to ignore the anguished throbbing in her back and shut her eyes, Johanna whispers through the wall, "I wish you could have kept me."

The ghost of a smile graces Eleanor's lips as she opens her eyes to stare at the ceiling. "Me too, darling."

The redhead room has quieted down considerably - this is usually the hour or so during the night when all is relatively calm. Nellie believes this to be the only time the lunatics actually get any sleep. She is beginning to think their problem isn't insanity, but insomnia. Closing her eyes again, Mrs. Lovett listens to the drizzle of rain outside her barred window and the steady_ drip drip drop _of water trickling from the ceiling and forming a small puddle on the floor.

Sleep is so close she can taste it on her tongue, thick and comforting like pie batter.

But alas, sleep is not to be had tonight.

Startling everyone within hearing distance with a piercing shriek, a young girl sitting in the middle of the floor jumps to her feet and runs to the door, tripping over other girls in her frantic dash. She stumbles and lands against the door. Curling her fingers around the bars, she begins shaking it with all her might, but the sturdy door does not budge. Still screaming at the top of her lungs, the woman gives up, drops to her knees and begins yanking at her hair with such violence that it makes Mrs. Lovett cringe just to watch.

The sound of booted footsteps echoes down the hall as guards rush to the source of the screaming. Finding the girl clawing at her arms hard enough to draw blood and shrieking nonsensically, they unlock the door and haul the lunatic to her feet, one of them muttering something about a straight jacket.

The door shuts behind them and they begin tugging the girl roughly down the corridor. Eleanor stays still and silent until the screeching fades into the distance, and then disappears entirely. She tilts her head to glance at Claribel with a knowing smirk before turning to peek at Johanna, pride glowing in her eyes. The woman who had just lost the last of her marbles had been Florence, Johanna's pick of the night.

Johanna offers a half-hearted smile, but her eyes are frightened, far from amused at the mental breakdown of yet another patient. Slipping her hand through the hole in the wall, Nellie strokes the girl's hand comfortingly. _We're stronger than that_, she wants to say.

"Nice choice, love," she murmurs instead.

_--_

All of the establishments in London, besides the filthiest of bars, have closed up for the night. The lamps in the houses lining the streets have been dimmed and every good citizen has gone to bed, snug and warm beneath the covers and completely oblivious to the heavy rain falling outside their homes.

Except for two.

In the parlor of 186 Fleet Street, Sweeney Todd and Anthony Hope sit before a crackling fire nursing glasses of whiskey, each lost in his own brooding thoughts of defeat. Toby, after making dinner, had gone off to bed, still fuming over their botched rescue endeavor. He had barely spoken at all after Sweeney had dragged him out of Fogg's Asylum and under other circumstances Mr. Todd might have enjoyed this. But not now, not when Toby's silence speaks volumes about their complete and utter failure today.

Their plan had been met with unexpected obstacles and they had given up. They hadn't been prepared, but that _will not _happen again. Sweeney will make sure of it. He has been staring into the fire for hours, and the silence between himself and Anthony has lasted even longer. Neither of them knows what to say, and the bitter disappointment is palpable between them.

At least the visit today hadn't been for nothing. They know exactly where Mrs. Lovett and Johanna are being kept, and how to get there. Sweeney had also noticed while he'd been standing close to Mrs. Lovett's cell, that the locks will not be too difficult to pick when the time comes.

His mind has barely left Mrs. Lovett since they had returned from Bedlam. Before they had visited, the bloody woman had been a nagging thought at the back of his head constantly, but now, he cannot seem to think of anything else. Sweeney isn't quite sure why, but she just will _not _go away. Just as stubborn when she isn't here as she is when she's standing before him with her hands on her hips. He likes it better when she's here, at least then he gets a few minutes of peace every day. Something about seeing Mrs. Lovett in there has undone something in him, and he doesn't understand it.

What could have _possibly _possessed him to give her his razor? He'd only been thinking that she had been hurt, and he didn't want it to happen again. He'd wanted her to have a way to defend herself. But _why_? Why does he care what happens to her? She is a pawn in his revenge plan, nothing else. Mrs. Lovett means little more to him than a stranger on the street. It irritates him that this blatant falsehood sounds mechanic and hollow even in his own mind. Gritting his teeth, Sweeney shakes off his more troubling thoughts to be dealt with later - much later.

He must admit that he had underestimated the conditions in which the lunatics are kept in Fogg's. The entire building is dank, cold and filthy - it had positively reeked of madness. Even Mrs. Lovett looked to be suffering from her environment. Although, her deterioration from the last time he'd seen her might have more to do with the guards' treatment of her, rather than the actual atmosphere. His grip imperceptibly tightens on his glass as he thinks again of the necklace of bruises around her pale throat. There had been something else, something she hadn't wanted him to see. Sweeney is reluctant to consider it, but there is a good possibility that with her tendency to open her mouth at the most inopportune times, Mrs. Lovett has already been severely punished with either a beating or something much worse. Something too terrible to contemplate.

Despite Mrs. Lovett's inability to behave herself, she at least seems to be taking care of Johanna. At the thought of his daughter, Sweeney closes his eyes with a pained sigh. His little girl. She is the very picture of her mother and every bit as lovely as he had hoped. He hadn't expected to see her but when he had, he couldn't move. He isn't sure how long he stood there, staring at her, and he only hopes he hadn't frightened her with his blatant gawking. Lucy would have been so proud to see the beautiful young woman Johanna has become...

Seeing his baby girl for the first time since she was a wailing infant in her mother's arms, coupled with the troubling condition of Mrs. Lovett has renewed Sweeney's determination to see some action, and soon. It had taken everything in him to just walk away, instead of yanking Mrs. Lovett and Johanna from their cells and slashing the throat of anyone who dared to get in his way.

"I'm sorry Mr. Todd," Anthony finally says after clearing his throat and startling Sweeney out of his thoughts. "I've been so enamored with my own problems, I forgot about yours. I know that you care for Mrs. Lovett very much - as much as I care for Johanna. I'm sorry that we couldn't rescue her today."

Surprised, Sweeney trains his eyes on Anthony, staring blankly.

Putting his half-empty glass aside, the sailor looks at Sweeney with sympathetic eyes. "Don't worry, my friend. We'll find another way."

It had never occurred to Sweeney that Anthony might take his persistence as a yearning to free his lover. Of course he wants to rescue Mrs. Lovett, but she is only his business partner. He needs her. Even if Mrs. Lovett _hadn't _been locked away in Bedlam, his Johanna would still be in there, but Anthony has no idea that Turpin's darling ward is the barber's estranged daughter or that he needs the baker to cover up his devilish deeds. Anthony only knows that Mrs. Lovett is in the asylum that Sweeney is intent on breaking into. He realizes now that Anthony has misinterpreted his relationship with the pie maker, and he bristles at the assumption but says nothing. There is nothing to say without revealing everything.

"I just don't know how," Anthony continues, oblivious to Sweeney's annoyance. "I haven't got the head for escape attempts."

Mr. Todd has been going over their options in his head repeatedly, for hours. The only forthcoming idea worth pursuing is buying a suit and going to the asylum masquerading as a wigmaker. It is a well-known fact that the wigmakers get their hair from the lunatics at Bedlam, and Sweeney had even seen a couple of short-haired victims today during his visit to the asylum. If they had only one woman to rescue, it might have been a brilliant plan that even Mrs. Lovett would have been impressed by. Having two women in separate rooms with entirely different shades of hair, presents a problem. Mr. Fogg will surely find this a little odd, considering wigmakers do not usually work on two separate projects at one time. Besides, armed guards would undoubtedly be hovering nearby. Sweeney is hoping for a quieter getaway, one that isn't punctuated by gunfire.

Anthony is still talking, but Mr. Todd is barely paying the boy any mind. Sighing inaudibly, Sweeney takes another swig of alcohol and scowls. If only they could have someone on the inside, telling them what day the madhouse is the least crowded, the least heavily guarded, or the best way to slip inside undetected.

An idea comes to him then, and his eyes flicker to the hallway just outside the parlor, leading to the bedrooms further into the house, where Toby sleeps soundly. They may not have an inside man, but they have the next best thing.

"Toby," he says, putting his drink aside to stand up and pace. He cannot think sitting so still; he needs movement. "No one will think twice about a child playing outside the asylum." Children are often seen on the sidewalks and the steps of Fogg's, playing with marbles and hoping to catch a glimpse of a lunatic or hear someone scream. "He can keep an eye on things, see when it's least heavily guarded, what time Fogg leaves everyday." It certainly won't hurt to have a spy while they work on other plans, and it's an added perk that it will keep Toby out of his hair for most of the day.

Anthony is silent for several long moments, thinking it over, and only the crackling of the fire is heard. "Do you think Toby will mind?"

Mr. Todd doesn't particularly care whether or not Toby minds, but he shakes his head and says, "Mrs. Lovett is the only mother that boy has ever known. He'll jump in front of a moving carriage if he thinks it will help her."

Anthony nods, frowning. "I just don't know how we're going to do it. You saw the asylum today, it was utterly chaotic! Guards at the end of every corridor, and some posted outside of cells! How are we to get inside unnoticed? And once we're in, how do we get back out? And where will we go?" He runs a hand through his hair and huffs his vexation. "Johanna and I will have to leave London. Judge Turpin will only come after her again if we stay here."

Sweeney hadn't though of it before, being too preoccupied with the actual escape, but where _were _they to go once they fled Bedlam? They couldn't stay here, it would be ludicrous to even consider such a thing. Fogg would only come to collect Mrs. Lovett again in a matter of hours. Perhaps they could get a carriage to take them out of London, to a smaller town miles away. It doesn't seem far enough. Sweeney has a feeling that lunatics escaping from an asylum isn't something taken lightly. They will have to run much farther than a few miles.

It takes him a moment to realize it, but when he does, he nearly snarls in acerbic protest. Judge Turpin. How could he forget? His sole purpose in life, to avenge his wife and daughter, has been put aside in favor of rescuing Mrs. Lovett and Johanna, but he can no longer ignore it. Turpin's shadow will loom over him wherever he goes, unless he deals with the troublesome pest now. He cannot leave London without ridding the world of one last miserable insect.

It is unthinkable to let Turpin live his pampered life in genial harmony after what he'd done to Benjamin's. Mrs. Lovett and Johanna have become more important than his revenge, but Turpin _will _die before the week is out. It is the only way Sweeney will ever be able to have any peace in his life, the only way his past will be put to rest. Then, it will be absolutely necessary to get as far from London as possible. If the law will severely punish those who help escaped lunatics, he can only imagine what they will do with a murderer.

"Anthony," he says, swirling the whiskey in his glass contemplatively. "How opposed are you to fleeing the country?"

* * *

A/N - So college is ...interesting. LOL I kind of hate it right now, but I'm sure it will get better. I managed to work on this chapter over the weekend, since I didn't have homework. Thanks to everyone for their comments, it's always fun to come home to reviews, and yours are always so encouraging. Robynne, you're the best beta since sliced bread, and I would be lost without your guidance and our late night picture foraging. And you all MUST read her story In The Dark Beside You. It's brilliant and needs more reviews:D Also, Robynne made me a pretty fantastic banner for this story. The link is on my profile page, so check it out and tell her what an awesome job she did! Oh, and my county is expecting some sort of ice storm over the next couple of days, and we might be without electricity for a bit, so if I don't reply to reviews right away, that's why. But I can still check my email on my cell phone, so review and make a bored girl happy!


	7. Mad About You

The Shadow Proves The Sunshine

The entire morning and afternoon at Fogg's Asylum is dedicated to driving the warden to the very brink of madness. Waking up for the fourth day in a row with a stiff neck from sleeping against a wall, Nellie Lovett begins the day by urging her friends to drop their bread on the ground when breakfast is served, and they all plead for a new piece. Petrified by the warden's rather violent reaction to this, Johanna curls up in her corner and chooses to remain quiet through the rest of their amusements.

Two hours later, when the warden is making his daily rounds, Eleanor, Tilda, Claribel, and Emmy raise their voices and begin to talk loudly about what a shame it is that the warden is bald, and perhaps that's why he's so mean and bitter. Upon hearing this indelicate talk, Mr. Fogg pauses outside their room, staring straight ahead, unmoving. Frozen inside their cell, the women do not draw another steady breath until he continues on his way without so much as a glance in their direction.

During the next hour, Nellie, tiring of the demented lullaby the lunatics sing throughout most of the night, murmurs a cheerful nursery rhyme under her breath. When the lunatics catch on and begin to repeat after her, an idea forms in her mind. She spends the rest of the afternoon making up the words to a love song about the warden and teaching it to the rest of the patients until they are all singing it at the top of their lungs, and Mr. Fogg is compelled to send his guards to quiet them down._ 'We swoon over Mr. Fogg, the scrawny, unassuming bloke. His head is hairless as a frog, we cross our fingers - hope he croaks.'_

All of these attempts, while proving to be very amusing, had not provoked Mr. Fogg to do anything other than shout and send his guards to restore order. Feeling unsatisfied with her work thus far, Mrs. Lovett gives Johanna a wink and with sore limbs, gets to her feet. Ignoring the stares of her friends, Nellie limps to the barred door holding her prisoner and all but throws her weight against it. The pain in her back has only intensified overnight, and every inhalation is enough to make her grit her teeth in anguish. She only hopes this is the 'getting worse' before it gets better.

Putting the pain out of her mind for the time being, Eleanor calls out in a sing-song voice, "Oh warden!" She smiles to herself, leaning casually against the door. Or rather, she hopes it looks casual. In reality, the door is the only thing keeping her upright. She listens carefully, but nothing unusual happens and there is no response to her call. Pressing her face between the bars, Nellie tries again. "Mr. Fogg!"

Upon hearing her shout, the lunatics begin to call out the name as well, one by one, echoing each other until they are all in perfect synchronization as they shout for their master. "_Mr. Fogg!_"

Nellie smirks, hearing Tilda, Claribel, and Emmy titter together in response, muffling their laughter into their hands. Tilting her head to one side, Mrs. Lovett listens as quick footsteps hurry in her direction from down the dark corridor. Mr. Fogg appears, breathless and panting, carrying a torch. "_What_?"

Sliding her arm through the bars, Mrs. Lovett waves it around wildly to let him know she is the one calling for his undivided attention.

When he realizes who has summoned him, Mr. Fogg scowls fiercely. "Yes?" He asks through gritted teeth.

She smiles, looking at the ground bashfully. "Just thirsty, that's all."

Mr. Fogg gapes at her for several seconds, speechless. The entire corridor is silent, waiting for his response. A stifled snort of laughter comes from behind Mrs. Lovett, sounding distinctly like Tilda. She ignores their amusement, focusing on looking innocently at the warden. Through his outrage, he finally regains his ability to form words and he fumes, "Well, you'll just have to wait like everyone else!"

Cocking her head to the side, Eleanor fiddles with a wayward curl. "And when might we expect some water, love? I'm bloody parched."

"When you behave yourself," comes his quietly seething response.

Eleanor purses her lips, highly dissatisfied. "If that's the case, I'll bloomin' de'ydrate before you start 'andin' out your bilge water." She shakes her head quickly, twisting her mouth to one side in thought. "Actually, I think I'd _prefer _bilge water to your feculent concoction, dearie."

Mr. Fogg levels her with a glowering stare. "How would you like to take a walk with me, Eleanor? There's an impressive new toy downstairs I'd like for you to see."

As if reminding her of her last encounter with the horrors of the basement, the ache in her back reaches its crescendo and she gasps in pain. Gripping the bars of the door to steady herself, Nellie bares her teeth to the warden. "I think I've spent enough time down there, love. But I appreciate the invitation, all the same."

The warden's hand disappears briefly into his coat pocket before reappearing with a set of keys. Examining them for a moment, he steps forward and mutters, "How unfortunate for you," as he slides a key into the lock and opens the door. "I've had quite enough of your games." The girls behind Nellie shrink away with frightened yelps as he steps into the room but she stands her ground, even as he grabs hold of her wrist and begins to tug her forcefully from the room.

Struggling against him, Mrs. Lovett says, "Don't you think you're overreactin' love? It's just a bit of fun!"

His grip around her wrist is painfully tight, like a manacle made of iron. Drawing her to him, Mr. Fogg hisses, "This is an insane asylum, Eleanor Lovett. You are here because you're family does not want you, and so society does not have to look at you. You are _not _here to have fun."

Nellie offers him a withering look and opens her mouth to give her tart reply when a soft voice from the next cell calls out, "Excuse me? Mr. Fogg?" Heart leaping into her throat at the sound of that familiarly sweet voice, Mrs. Lovett pales considerably as Mr. Fogg slams the door to the redhead room and drags her with him to the neighboring door. Sure enough, Johanna is standing behind the door, looking like a frightened animal. Her voice is shaking with fear as she stutters, "Please, sir. Could I just have something to comb my hair with?"

Mrs. Lovett's eyes widen when she realizes Johanna has decided to play a part in their silly game, but she curses the girl for her god-awful timing. At her question, a loud snicker is heard from the redhead room and Nellie turns her head sharply to silence whoever is having trouble keeping quiet. Mr. Fogg is already angry enough, and Johanna's timid request will surely send him over the edge of madness.

Fogg stares at Johanna blankly, as if unable to believe that one of his better behaved patients is acting out in such a manner. Finally, his hand shoots out through the bars and he grabs a fistful of Johanna's blonde hair, yanking on it roughly and issuing a whimper from the girl. "Why don't we just send for the wigmaker, my dear?" He asks calmly, watching her grimace in pain as he twists her hair around his fingers. "He can chop it all off and you won't have to worry about those troublesome tangles anymore."

He jerks on her hair one last time and Johanna cries out, tears filling her dark eyes. Mrs. Lovett is seconds away from elbowing the warden in the ribs when he finally lets go and watches as Johanna stumbles back, rubbing at her head. Without giving the girl another thought, the warden turns swiftly on his heel and marches down the hallway, dragging Eleanor behind him.

--

"Are you bloody mad?" Those are the first words out of Mrs. Lovett's mouth when the warden eventually has his guards haul her back up the stairs and into the redhead room.

Johanna looks mildly amused. "No, are you?"

Frowning, Nellie folds her arms across her chest and watches as a cockroach scuttles across the floor in front of her. "Perhaps. Not insane, but certainly mad. Or somewhere in between." She shakes her head, refusing to let Johanna distract her from her well-deserved scolding. "What were you thinkin', love? Mr. Fogg could 'ave beaten you within an inch of your short life!"

Her face a mask of courage, Johanna lifts one frail shoulder in a delicate shrug. "You don't seem to be afraid of him."

Mrs. Lovett glares at the floor. "Well that doesn't mean much, dearie, as we've already established that I've lost my bloody marbles. What's your excuse?"

Johanna is quiet for a moment, and Nellie turns to glance through the crumbling hole in the wall to see the girl pursing her lips thoughtfully. "I suppose I didn't want you to be punished again; I can tell you're still hurting from the last time. I thought if I could distract him from you, he might punish me instead."

Smiling gently, Eleanor sighs. "I appreciate it love, but I can take care of myself. I asked for it, anyway." She has spent the better part of the day in the basement, strapped to the tranquility chair and her head is still pounding from the vice's grip on her skull. Once she'd stopped screaming at him, Mr. Fogg had released her. It had been no worse than last time, and she is infinitely grateful that she'd been left with nothing worse than a headache and a raw throat. Reaching through the wall, Nellie takes Johanna's hand in her own. "That being said, you were positively splendid. 'Is face got so purple I thought 'e might 'ave a stroke!"

Johanna smiles, looking pleased. "I must admit, it was rather exciting."

Eleanor laughs gleefully. "Just don't ever do it again. Your fa-_Anthony_ will 'ave my 'ead if I return you without that pretty 'air of yours." It had almost slipped, and she hopes that Johanna hadn't noticed her mistake.

Apparently the mention of Anthony has stolen the girl's attention, because her smile widens. "Oh, that would have been dreadful!" She laughs. "Imagine having to tell Anthony he'll have to wed a bald bride."

Snorting, Mrs. Lovett says, "Oh Jo darling, your veil would 'ide it beautifully."

They giggle together at this, but the rare jovial moment is interrupted by the sound of voices, and two sets of footsteps marching down the corridor. One voice is Mr. Fogg's, and the other Nellie does not recognize, though it sounds like a voice she has heard somewhere before. The girls quiet immediately, listening to the approaching footsteps with trepidation.

"I assure you, good sir," Mr. Fogg says, his voice becoming clearer the closer he gets. "We have quite a selection of girls this week. There have been several new arrivals since the last time you visited us, just days ago. Beautiful ones. We'll find something to suit your needs."

Eyes widening in terror, Eleanor swears under her breath and hurriedly reaches into the bodice of her dress. Pulling out Mr. Todd's razor, she reaches through the wall and shoves the cold silver into Johanna's hand. "Hold on to that, dearie. You might need it." If the man decides on a blonde, he may very well take notice of the fair-faced Johanna and Eleanor will never forgive herself if something happens to the girl. Neither will Mr. Todd.

Eyebrows raised in alarm, Johanna studies the intricate detailing of the weapon. "Mrs. Lovett, where did you get this? And what would I possibly need it for?"

Nellie sighs. "It's from Mr. Todd, for protection. Whatever you do, don't lose it."

Johanna looks as if she wants to reply, but the footsteps have halted abruptly just outside the redhead room. Part of her is grateful that this man seems to be in the mood for a redhead, even while her heart sinks. If it will keep Mr. Todd's daughter unharmed, she will endure whatever she has to. The key slides into the rusted lock while Nellie draws in a deep breath and closes her eyes, willing herself and her friends to become invisible. The door creaks open and soft, deliberate footsteps enter the room, stopping just inside the door. It is so quiet that Mrs. Lovett can almost hear the bugs crawling across the straw covered floor.

When she finally works up the courage to open her eyes, she sees a dark figure standing in the doorway, silently scrutinizing them all. The other women are huddling together, squeezing their eyes shut and mouthing silent prayers. Squinting against the darkness, Eleanor just barely makes out the figure of a tall, slender man leaning into a cane and the outline of a top hat on his head. Her stomach lurches and she grabs onto the bench beneath her to steady herself.

Mr. Taylor.

The pretentious sod seems to spot her at the same time that her eyes widen in recognition. Green eyes crinkling with amusement, he surveys her quietly for several long seconds before pointing his ornate cane in her direction. "I believe that one will do quite nicely, Mr. Fogg."

Hands clasped behind his back, Fogg nods with an eager smile. "As you wish, Mr. Taylor." With a snap of the warden's fingers, Oscar and Harlan enter the room and haul Nellie to her feet by her arms, paying no attention to her feeble attempts to escape.

"Take yer 'ands _off _me!" she shrieks, struggling against their bruising hands.

"Quiet, you filth," Harlan grunts, keeping one hand on her arm and bringing the other up to cover her mouth.

Grimacing at his grubby palm, Nellie bites at his hand and he jerks it away, swearing. Using the distraction to her advantage, Mrs. Lovett delivers a swift jab to the ribs with her elbow to Oscar, and his hold loosens just enough for her to slip from his grasp. Having recovered from Nellie's bite, Harlan sticks his foot out, tripping her with his boot and sending her crashing to the floor. The warden shouts angrily above the din, but no one pays his ranting any mind. Watching from the doorway, Mr, Taylor only leans against the doorframe, twirling his cane and smirking.

Scrambling on her hands and knees toward the corner of the room, hoping to take the razor back from Johanna and use it against them, Nellie only makes it a couple of feet before Harlan catches up with her. Wheezing and cursing, he grabs her by the ankle and yanks her toward him. She kicks at him and he stumbles back. Growling, he reaches for her wrist and hoists her to her feet, even as she slaps at him. He lifts her over his shoulder, and Eleanor beats her fists against his back, railing against such treatment. She kicks her legs out for good measure, managing to swipe Oscar across the cheek with the heel of her boot.

Breathing heavily from his exertion, Harlan glares at the other guard. "Leavin' me to deal with this mad witch," he complains. "I wouldn't want ya to lend a bloody hand!"

Oscar smiles, gingerly touching the bleeding scratch on his cheek. "You looked like you were doin' just fine on your own."

Grumbling under his breath, Harlan stomps past the warden and Taylor with a still-struggling Nellie over his shoulder. The others follow him, Mr. Taylor looking very satisfied with his choice for the night. The odd procession makes their way down several dark and winding passageways before reaching a solid looking wood door guarded by a heavy padlock.

Pushing past them all, Mr. Fogg fishes a ring of keys from his pocket and fiddles for the right one before sliding it into the lock and heaving his shoulder against the door to push it open. Stepping back, he allows Harlan to carry Mrs. Lovett inside. She has all but given up on escaping at this point, even for all her aversion to being in a room with Taylor, her small frame is no match against four grown men.

The room is small and bare, nothing but a barred window overhead and in the corner, a bed of straw on the stone floor. It seems chillier than the others rooms, and somehow far more menacing. Harlan sets her to her feet, keeping a tight hold on her lest she try to get away again. Nodding to Oscar, Harlan grabs Nellie's wrists and holds them out for the other guard to shackle before forcing her to the ground and doing the same thing with her ankles.

Fully incapable of doing anything but sit and watch while the guards file out of the room, Mrs. Lovett stares with growing panic as Mr. Fogg turns to Taylor with a smile. "I trust you'll use her for your amusement, Mr. Taylor," he murmurs. "I shall see you in my office when you are through."

Mr. Taylor returns the smile with a curt nod as the warden turns on his heel and exits the room, locking the door firmly behind him. When the sound of footfalls fades into the distance, Mr. Taylor turns penetrative green eyes on Eleanor. Scrutinizing her bound form, his mouth twists into cold smirk and he bows to her dramatically, taking off his hat and brandishing his cane with a flourish.

Eleanor only glares balefully - there is nothing she dislikes more than a man vain enough to use a cane when he has no use for it. It reminds her too much of Beadle Bamford, the slime.

"Nothing to say?" He tsks quietly, not even trying to hide the lust in his eyes. "You were so talkative the last time we were together."

She refuses to speak to him, she doesn't want to give the depraved brute the satisfaction of hearing her voice one time throughout this whole horrifying ordeal. She will close her eyes and try to think of Mr. Todd, and the plans he must be making with Anthony. Imagining her imminent escape from this nightmare will surely make this easier to endure. She _will _leave this place, and by God, her mind will be intact when she does. Even if it means living with the memory of Taylor's lascivious hands on her.

She had planned on putting up some sort of fight; she certainly wasn't going to let him take what he wanted from her without walking away with a few wounds of his own. However, with her hands and feet shackled together in irons, Mrs. Lovett has no way to defend herself. She is at the mercy of this filth - the very sort of man Mr. Todd is so intent on ridding the world of, and with good reason. If only Mr. Taylor had come in for a shave before all this asylum business...

At her continued silence, Mr. Taylor smiles sardonically. "I will enjoy this whether you speak or not, whether you offer yourself to me willingly or not. I will take whatever you give me, be it your obedience...or your fury."

Skin crawling at the images this conjures in her mind, Nellie snaps in her panic, "Oh, bugger off."

"Such language," he chastises her, his grin widening. "Your fire is bewitching, my dear."

She scoffs, bristling. "Think you're such a ruddy charmer, don't you?"

Ignoring her disgust, Mr. Taylor begins to circle her as she sits on the ground before him. Sly smile pasted in place, his eyes rove over her as though studying a work of art. "I had a horse like you once," he tells her softly. "So lively and vivacious. A magnificent animal - willful, stubborn to a fault. But like you, it too just needed to be broken."

Kneeling directly behind her, Taylor carefully reaches out to touch the auburn curls tumbling down Mrs. Lovett's back. Twisting a ringlet around his finger, he breathes in sharply and closes his eyes. Nearly humming he tilts his head forward, the tip of his nose colliding with her hair as he inhales, breathing in her scent. He murmurs, "Such beauty."

Recoiling from his touch, Eleanor can only close her eyes and pray to whatever dark god will listen to her for deliverance. She feels Taylor's fingers, long and slim, brushing her hair to the side to get to the laces of her corset. Attempting to squirm away from him earns her a slap across the cheek, so she stills and waits, trembling, for him to finish.

He makes quick work of her corset and tosses it aside. The black and purple lace garment lands on the bed of hay, and Nellie fastens her eyes on it, determined not to cry even as Mr. Taylor begins undoing the buttons on the back of her dress. His breathing has become quick and labored, and by his prolonged silence, she can tell that he is no longer in the mood for talking or playing games. She hopes it means he will be quick about it and send her on her way.

His fingers still suddenly, frozen in place on the fifth button. "What have we here?" He mutters, and the frown is obvious in his voice. Peeling back her dress a little, he lightly touches the tips of his fingers to the angry lines across her back.

Crying out when even that feather light touch causes spasms of agony to ripple up and down her spine, Nellie breaks her lengthy silence as she jerks away from his fingers. "Don't touch me!"

"Quiet," he snaps, pressing his fingers into the wounds again. The pain causes her to writhe away from him, her bound hands just barely keeping her face from hitting the stone floor. Hot tears fill her eyes, speaking volumes about her misery. She stays rooted to the spot and grits her teeth against the tenderness from the wounds that have yet to heal.

Releasing her, Mr. Taylor leaps to his feet and marches irately to the door, pounding on the wood with his cane relentlessly. The ceaseless tapping of ivory against wood rings through the room and the outside passageway. "Warden!" He shouts. "Come in here at once!"

It takes several minutes for one of the guards to relay the message to Mr. Fogg, who had escaped to his office on the first floor after leaving Mr. Taylor. Nellie pays no mind to the clamor, instead preferring to curl up on the floor and shut her eyes, willing the throbbing ache away. When Fogg finally hurries into the room, panting and wide-eyed, he asks, "Is there a problem, Mr. Taylor?"

Taylor points furiously to Nellie's exposed back, his dark hair tousled as he gestures angrily with his cane. "Explain to me why this has not been properly cared for. The woman's back is on the verge of infection, for God's sake!" Stepping closer to Mr. Fogg, he looms over the shorter man, glowering down at him. "Is this what you do to the women I pay good money for? I will _not _have damaged goods!"

Thoroughly chastised, Mr. Fogg takes a step back and sputters, "But-but sir - "

Taylor's eyes narrow. "Are you arguing with me, _warden_?"

"Of course not!" Fogg manages to spit out, waving his hands vehemently. "It's just that there are several other pretty women in here, ones not so unfortunately afflicted. Perhaps another will better satisfy your needs?"

"No," Mr. Taylor snaps, glancing at Nellie's prone form. "She is the one I want, and she is the one I shall have. Will you deny me her?" He doesn't wait for an answer before delivering his ultimatum, "Fix her or I shall be forced to take my business elsewhere."

The warden's eyes widen at the threat, and he places a reassuring hand on the other man's arm. "I assure you, Mr. Taylor, if she is the one you want, I will most readily have her cared for."

Eleanor almost laughs, watching from her place on the floor as the warden reluctantly agrees to Taylor's terms. Mr. Fogg would rather watch her die slowly than have his doctors prevent an infection from the wounds he had so readily inflicted her with. However, Mr. Taylor is his highest paying customer, and Fogg will do anything to assure his continued patronage.

His ruffled feathers sufficiently smoothed, Taylor offers the warden a friendly smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Excellent, my friend." He adjusts the sleeves of his coat and moves to the door. "Send word when her wounds are healed." Tipping his hat and winking once more in Nellie's direction, he disappears through the door.

"Sorry love," she calls after him, nearly giddy with her relief but her voice shakes despite her bravado. "Maybe next time, eh?"

The warden turns sharp eyes on her, his glare telling her he would like nothing more than to pitch her from the highest window of the asylum. She only grins at him, eyes dancing with the mischief she has caused without even trying. This is much more satisfying than any bald joke or love song.

Never taking his gaze from her, Fogg calls out to the guards waiting in the corridor, "Tell Doctor Henderson to ready the maggots."

--

Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlor is open for the first time since Mrs. Lovett had been whisked away to Fogg's Asylum. Mr. Todd had been reluctant to do so, wanting nothing more than to stay holed up in his room, plotting and thinking of the most gratifying way to watch the warden die. He can't even take his rage out on his unsuspecting customers, because there is no one waiting in the bakehouse below to dispose of the evidence. However, keeping the shop closed would look too suspicious to the people of London. After all, why would a barber need a baker to keep his shop open?

So, in spite of his misgivings, Sweeney stands mixing shaving cream when his first customer of the day walks inside, his presence punctuated by the merrily tinkling bell above the door. It isn't much of a struggle for Sweeney to smile as he turns to the middle-aged gentleman and gestures for him to take a seat. Sweeney's mood has been considerably lighter since this morning, when Toby had set off for the asylum, hoping to loiter on its steps long enough to garner useful information. Not only is the boy out of the way and no longer bothering Mr. Todd with his persistent questions about Mrs. Lovett's welfare, but he is hopeful that Toby will be able to find out something they can use in their plans to free his daughter and the baker.

Throwing a sheet around the man's neck, Sweeney turns his attention to his razors, deliberately ignoring the empty space where one of them should be. The only thing occupying his thoughts besides Mrs. Lovett, Johanna and their eventual escape from Bedlam, is Judge Turpin's murder. Getting Mrs. Lovett and Johanna out of Fogg's clutches has taken priority over exacting his revenge on the judge, but there is no question that it must be done before fleeing London. Considering that they plan on getting out of this wretched city as soon as they leave the asylum, it doesn't leave much time for slitting the throat of one of its esteemed citizens. Killing the judge after rescuing Mrs. Lovett and Johanna leaves too much time for them to be discovered, and Mr. Todd will hang before he lets anyone take his family from him again.

On the other hand, killing the judge _before _the time comes to break into Bedlam is entirely too risky as well. An investigation will surely follow Turpin's disappearance, and Sweeney hopes to be far away before that occurs. In this way, murdering Judge Turpin has become more of a nuisance than something to strive toward. The fact that Turpin's murder has become a trifling errand before he can leave London has made him wonder what his motives truly are anymore. His focus is on Lucy less and less in recent days, and Sweeney's overactive mind cannot help but wonder why. Why does the blurry outline of his late wife's face occupy his thoughts so little now?

The answer is in every room of the pie shop, in the quiet that he suddenly finds so maddening. Mrs. Lovett. He misses her. He actually _misses _that irrepressible, clever little harlot. The revelation causes his usually steady hand to slip, and he nicks the gentleman he is shaving. The man jumps, and Sweeney mumbles a half-hearted apology.

Why would he miss Mrs. Lovett - the woman who has plagued his life with one annoyance after the other ever since he moved in? The woman who makes him feel adrift on a veritable sea of her chattering? Much to his irritation, there is no denying that the mere mention of her, whether by Anthony, Toby or his own traitorous thoughts, causes his heart to hammer madly in his chest. He doesn't _want _to miss her, he doesn't _want _to think of her more than he thinks of Lucy. Despite what he wants, he does miss her and it enrages him more than he could convey without slinging his belongings about the room like some spoilt child.

Why does he miss her? Why has he been spending his time pondering ways to kill the warden, rather than Judge Turpin? Why does the thought of harm coming to Mrs. Lovett torment him? So much that he had placed his razor, his precious friend, in Mrs. Lovett's hand.

He may very well require Mrs. Lovett for most of his daily needs -_yes_, she does his laundry and _yes_, she keeps him from starving or running out of gin - but that does not account for his behavior so far. It is no reason for her to matter so much to him; and there is no longer any denying than he does care what happens to her. The facts are all laid out before him, and all that's left is to simply draw his own conclusion from them.

There is only one explanation.

"I love her," he murmurs aloud, his voice tight with his disbelief and objections.

His startled customer turns his head to look at the barber. "What was that, Mr. Todd?"

Placing a soothing hand on the man's shoulder, Sweeney shakes his head and waits for him to turn around before replacing his politely fake look of concern with his usual scowl. Sliding the razor against the grain of stubble once again, he wonders how this had happened. He can't recall any definite moment when his attachment to Mrs. Lovett had begun to extend beyond landlady and accomplice. He has struggled for years not to feel anything other than apathy, but somewhere along the way, the tiny baker had tip-toed past his carefully guarded defenses.

The shock is nothing compared to the guilt, and behind his eyes he sees a flash of the blurred, but lovely smile of his late wife. It isn't as if he is replacing Lucy with Mrs. Lovett. The two women could not be more different, both in appearance and personality. But Lucy is gone, just as Benjamin Barker is. There is no bringing either of them back. They are ghosts of the past and the past cannot be returned, not even to those who wish it desperately enough.

"_It doesn't mean your life 'as to stop, that everythin' 'as to lose its meanin'."_

Mrs. Lovett's own words, the morning she was taken. He almost growls, hearing the infuriating woman in his head for the hundredth time this week. There is no escaping her, and he doesn't know if he truly wants to anymore. He wants-_needs_ to be angry with the bloody woman, for making him feel this way but he's too drained to muster up any emotion but guilt. How could he let this happen? Or had it happened despite his strong will for it to be otherwise? But it's done, and the 'how' no longer matters.

Lucy had always been so selfless, a gentle and giving creature by nature. She'd always done whatever she could to make Benjamin happy and deep down, the last part of Barker that still remains, the part that will always love Lucy, knows she would wish the same for him now. She would want him to be happy, to be with whoever makes him happy. Or at least, the closest Sweeney Todd will ever get to being happy. Content, perhaps.

When he allows her unending, cheerful chatter to penetrate the mental fog clouding his head most days, Mrs. Lovett makes him content. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, he is content to sit in the parlor with her while she reads, or let her wander about his shop while he works. He doesn't even mind her being around anymore, and in fact, having spent several days without her, has come to understand that he prefers her company. Although he would never admit such a thing out loud, there are times when the murderous rage has abated just enough for him to pay attention to what she's saying and Mrs. Lovett's odd little stories can be amusing. That has more to do with her enthusiastic animation and wild hand gestures than any real interest he might have in the actual words she says. There are times when her mere presence is enough to give him a headache but on days when he's feeling more indulgent, having Mrs. Lovett near is like applying salve to a wound.

It has happened, no matter how hard he has tried to fight it with his weak reasoning. No matter how much he wants it to be otherwise. Mrs. Lovett has captured his heart with her charismatic rebellion for all things moral and ensnared him with her enchanting wit. And now, instead of fruitlessly trying to wrestle his heart away from her again, Mr. Todd accepts it for what it is. Once his mind is made up, after all, there is no changing it.

He loves Mrs. Lovett. It is a certainty - he knows it just as he knows that Judge Turpin will die at his hand, that Mrs. Lovett and Johanna will be free of Fogg's Asylum, and that Lucy's hair had been yellow. A simple fact that cannot be denied or altered.

Past denial, there is a place called acceptance - a state of mind which Sweeney Todd has safely arrived. The complacency his realization brings him is like nothing he has ever felt before. His thoughts, continuously racing since the day Mrs. Lovett was so unceremoniously taken, are surprisingly apathetic - an emotion he is much more comfortable with than the tumultuous agitation of recent days. It seems as if his mind, satisfied with the conclusion he has come to, has decided to settle back into its usual cool detachment.

Letting out a gratified sigh through his nose, Sweeney turns his full attention back to the shave he is nearly through with. In the middle of his last stroke of the blade, the door to the shop bursts open and crashes against the wall. Standing in the doorway, Toby gulps in large gasps of air, his brown eyes wide and chest heaving.

"Mr. Todd!" He rasps urgently.

The frantic look on the boy's face unsettles Sweeney and he knows Toby has discovered something important. His every instinct tells him to throw his customer out on his ear and hear what the boy has to stay, but the barber forces himself to stay composed and do his job. Holding out a hand to signal Toby to wait, he hurriedly finishes with the man in the chair, taking no notice of his suddenly shaking hand, or the young boy standing nearby, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet.

When his customer has paid, Mr. Todd ushers him out the door and locks up before whirling around to look at Toby, his face expectant.

Stumbling over his words, Toby looks like he might hyperventilate. "It's awful, sir! It's in'umane, what they're doin' in there! And we been sittin' around doin' nothin', this whole time! While some bleeder could 'ave been doing God knows what to 'er! We 'ave to rescue 'er, we 'ave to get 'er out before someone - "

His impatience getting the best of him, Sweeney reaches the boy in two quick strides and grabs him by the collar. Nearly shaking him, he snarls, "Spit it out, boy!"

Needing no further encouragement, the words burst out of Toby's mouth in one hastily drawn breath, "They rape 'em in there, Mr. T! I 'eard em' talkin' about it! We 'ave to get mum out _now_!"

Mouth dry, Sweeney slowly releases Toby's rumpled collar and turns away. He barely hears Toby over the pounding in his ears as the boy continues to explain.

Toby looks ready to burst into tears, but he presses on bravely, fighting to get the words out. "See, I was sittin' on the steps outside the asylum, playin' marbles with a few of the lads from the workhouse and this pompous-lookin' sort of chap was standin' next to the door, talkin' to this other bloke 'bout - " Toby stops here and sniffles, wiping his face with his sleeve. "They were talkin' about payin' Mr. Fogg for time with a lady prisoner, sir. Bugger said 'e wanted a redhead! It's the warden's underground trade - a way to make some extra money!"

The blood drains from his face and for a moment, the edges of Sweeney's vision become hazy and black at the words _'said 'e wanted a redhead'_. But just as quickly, his survival mechanism kicks in, and the unmitigated fury floods through him, as welcome as a cool breeze on a summer day. Sickening images fill his mind - filthy perverts leering at Mrs. Lovett, looming over her, clawing at her skirts. If anyone has laid a hand on her...

But Toby isn't finished relaying his own fears to the barber, fears that had already run through Sweeney's mind a hundred times before Toby decided to voice them. "What if they've already gotten to 'er, Mr. Todd? What if someone's already put 'is disgustin' 'ands on 'er?!"

Sweeney had been aware of the warden's perverse secret trade, he'd known perfectly well that Mrs. Lovett and Johanna were at risk. He has been forcing himself not to think of it for the past several days, the possibility too maddening to ponder. However, as the words pour from Toby's mouth with great speed, the dam holding back the anxiety crumbles. He isn't worried about Johanna; he knows Mrs. Lovett well enough to be acquainted with her wildly protective nature. He knows if any man so much as looks at Johanna, the baker will be as fierce as a mother bear defending her cub. No, Johanna's well-being doesn't concern him. It's Mrs. Lovett that has his stomach in knots even as his jaw clenches with rage. There will be no mercy for the man who dares to touch her.

Now isn't the time to dwell on it, he realizes as Toby struggles to hold in a choked sob. He forgets how young the boy really is sometimes. Swallowing, Mr. Todd awkwardly rests a hand on the boy's shoulder and attempts his first real try at comforting another human being since Johanna had been an infant. Fighting down the strange tightness that has formed in his throat, he says, "We'll get her back, boy."

Scowling through his tears, Toby says scornfully. "If there's anythin' left of 'er to take."

Toby's cynicism is not what Sweeney needs to hear right now but he bites his tongue and grumbles, "Your mum's a strong woman. She can take care of herself."

Toby shakes his head furiously, hiccupping as he turns to look up at Sweeney. " 'Ow do you know? Any ol' blighter could just walk right in with some coins and 'ave 'is way with 'er! What could she do about it?"

_That's it. _Why hadn't he seen it before? It's the only way to get to Mrs. Lovett and Johanna. Backing away from Toby, Sweeney begins to pace back and forth in front of the window, his steps quick and determined. It will require a good deal more money than merely storming the place and slitting the throat of anyone in his path, but he's much more fond of the poetic justice of this new plan. He smirks down on the streets of London and murmurs, "We've got them."

"Sir?" Toby questions, sounding more composed now.

Without turning to look at him, Mr. Todd orders, "Get Anthony, boy. I have an idea."

* * *

A/N - First off, HUGE thanks to Robynne for beta-ing this chapter and pulling me off my ledge more than once. I would be lost without our brainstorming chats. In case any of you were wondering, they used maggots to clean wounds and keep them from getting infected. It's still used today, in some cases. And I didn't know any of that until DojoGhost told me because she's my Fountain of Knowledge. Big props to her for this chapter! And you all get a cookie for your lovely reviews and feedback:D


	8. Between Kindness and Madness

The Shadow Proves The Sunshine

"Mark my words, that's the last time I help with any soddin' operation!"

The sound of muffled voices outside the room rouses Nellie from her deep slumber. Clinging desperately to the last remnants of sleep, she yawns and listens with half-hearted interest to the voices. A heated conversation is occurring outside the redhead room in low tones, as if the voices are afraid of being heard. One sounds calm and amused, while the other is an angry hiss, echoing off the stones.

"Look at this bleedin' mark!" Harlan spits out in a hushed whisper. "If that wench gave me another damn scar, I'll wring her neck myself!"

Oscar snorts. "Lady makes even more of a fuss when she's delusional, don't she?"

Mrs. Lovett hears a faint scuffle and a loud thump. She determines that it must be Harlan smacking Oscar, and Oscar reeling back from the blow, considering the yelp of pain that follows. "S'not funny," Harlan fumes, and Oscar laughs again.

"Least it's over now," he says, offering consolation. "That Taylor fellow'll be back for her soon enough."

Harlan grunts his agreement, reminding Mrs. Lovett of Mr. Todd and she feels an unexpected pang in her chest at the thought of the brooding ghost of a man. Eyes closed, she gives a soft sigh. Familiar piercing eyes and dark hair with a flash of white drift behind her lids. She misses that dreadful man, even his good-for-nothing attempts at conversation. But after all those years without him, she hadn't needed him to talk. She'd been content just knowing he was near and hearing the sound of her voice, whether he was truly listening to her or not.

"Bloody disgusting that was," Harlan is saying, but Nellie has missed part of the conversation, and she strains her ears to catch up. "All those creepy-crawlies everywhere..." Harlan makes an odd sound in the back of his throat, like he might heave at any moment at the mere memory of what had occurred in the basement.

Mrs. Lovett straightens instantly, wincing a little at the ache in her back. She ignores it, straining to hear their conversation. She can't recall much of what had happened after Mr. Fogg had forced the contents of one of his vials down her throat. She struggles to forget the faint, uncomfortable tickling of odious insects squirming against the skin of her back, but every other memory is blurry and shadowed. Only half coherent through much of the proceedings, she vaguely recalls being strapped to one of the operating tables and hearing the low hum of voices all around her.

The sole evidence of her foray with maggots and bespectacled doctors are the white strips of linen bandages that make an odd pattern of patchwork across her marred back. It itches with terrible persistence, and Mrs. Lovett shifts uncomfortably, resisting the ever-present urge to scratch at them, not wanting to aggravate her condition any further.

Retreating footsteps and the sound of fading voices tells her that Oscar and Harlan have taken their conversation elsewhere, and Nellie slumps back against the wall in disappointment. There is no way she'll be able to drift back to sleep, the lunatics are due to start their singing again any time now. Every night is like clockwork, as if the patients are on some sort of invisible schedule. The moon is still out and she tilts her head slightly to peer out at it through the barred window, hoping to occupy her mind for a while.

In a way, it's a blessing to wake up at such a quiet hour in the asylum. It's a rare occasion when she isn't roused from her uneasy slumber by mad shrieking. Having time to think without hundreds of other voices drowning out her thoughts is a nice change; however, being alone with her thoughts is just as maddening. Staring out at the night sky, having the outside world so bloody close and yet unable to do anything about it is enough to drive even the sanest people bonkers. London may be foul and sooty, but at least it doesn't echo of emptiness the way the asylum does. It has scarcely been a week in this place and even though she'd been so adamant about getting out of the city, she would trade anything just to see crowded London streets and tend to a pie shop full of customers all demanding more ale. Anywhere is better than in here.

Eleanor feels more alone in that moment than she has during all of her time in Fogg's Asylum. Closing her eyes to the stars, she thinks of Mr. Todd and Toby, wondering how they are getting along without her and what they might be doing at this very moment. Toby should be asleep in his bed, and Eleanor hopes Mr. Todd is still enforcing a proper bedtime for the boy. She thinks of the frequent nightmares Toby has of his time in the workhouse and with Pirelli, and the numerous times during the week when he crawls into bed with her, tears in his young eyes. Who holds him now and tells him that nothing's going to harm him?

Sleep never came easily to any of them, especially Sweeney Todd, and Mrs. Lovett is sure he is probably wide awake, pacing the floor of his shop with practiced ease. His footsteps have lulled her to sleep every night since his return, like some demented lullaby and she finds it difficult to fall asleep without the comforting sound. Here, she has only crazed mutterings and the heavy footsteps of the asylum guards passing intermittently outside her door. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. It takes only a moment to transport herself from her grimy cell to her warm bed, and she imagines being snug beneath the blankets and staring up at the ceiling as Mr. Todd's incessant, rhythmic pacing soothes her into seaside dreams.

She wonders if he misses her the way she misses him. She wonders if it bothers him that the pie shop is so quiet now, or that no one is around to keep him from brooding and wasting away to nothing. Somehow, she doubts it.

Quite suddenly, the sound of footsteps tears Nellie away from her musings and her eyes flutter open sleepily, not to her bedroom, but to a filth infested cell. The sudden change in scenery disheartens her, but she brushes off the feelings of melancholy to listen to the footsteps approach. She hears four sets of boots, and Mr. Fogg's quietly placating voice. The familiarity of the situation sends ice flooding through her veins. Her breath hitches in her throat, but she doesn't dare move or make a sound.

_Surely Mr. Taylor isn't back already..._

However, the small group passes right by the redhead room and hovers just outside the door leading to the blondes. The door creaks open, and light from a torch fills the room with a cold glow. Nellie watches with her heart in her mouth as Johanna squints against the sudden light, roused from her peaceful slumber huddled against the wall. She glances fearfully at Mrs. Lovett, shielding her eyes from the light.

There is a low murmur of voices from the doorway, and a man Mrs. Lovett doesn't recognize steps into the middle of the room and looks around him with the air of someone selecting fruit at a market stall. The man is tall, and middle-aged by the looks of it, dressed in a dark, tailored suit with his graying hair combed back neatly. Nellie can practically smell the scent of money coming off of him in waves.

His eyes crinkle and he smiles as his gaze falls on the frail figure curled up in the corner of the room, her feet tucked beneath her on a decaying bench. "This pretty little flower will do nicely, Mr. Fogg."

Eleanor's heart very nearly stops, and she presses a hand to her chest to remind herself to breathe as Harlan and Oscar step forward to retrieve Johanna from her corner. They're going to take her little Jo and steal the meager amount of innocence she still has left. "_No!_" She means to shout it, to reach through the wall and curl her fingers into the skirts of Johanna's dress, refuse to let them carry her off. But the word leaves her mouth in a breathless whisper, and she stays rooted to the spot, gripped by her own practical nature as Harlan seizes Johanna's wrist and hauls her to her feet. Nellie's instinct tells her it would be very unwise to intervene just now.

"Let go of me!" Johanna whimpers, tears welling in her dark eye, though she barely tries to get away, struggling meekly against the guard's arms.

Frowning at Johanna's half-hearted attempts to escape, Mrs. Lovett digs her nails into her palms and forces herself to stay silent. It will do her no good to kick up a fuss. Johanna will be taken away no matter what Nellie says or does, and at least this way Mr. Fogg will not discover that she and Johanna have formed a friendship. The man discourages all forms of his inmates bonding, saying that it encourages disrespect and mutinous fantasies. If he ever found out, he would surely move Nellie or Johanna somewhere else. At least if she keeps quiet, Fogg won't confine her to a room all by herself, and Johanna will have someone to comfort her when it's all over, rather than crying to herself in a corner.

Johanna has given up on trying to get away, and decided to go to her fate peaceably. With Harlan and Oscar on either side of her, she is escorted from the room, followed by the gentleman and Mr. Fogg, who slams the door behind them. In an instant, Mrs. Lovett leaps to her feet, ignoring the sympathetic stares of Tilda and Claribel, where they sit next Emmy, who still hasn't woken up.

Moving sluggishly to the door, Nellie clutches onto the wall for support. Her back is far from healed just yet and every movement is painful; she is certain she's pushing her body to its limits. Beginning to pace frantically in front of the door, Nellie ignores her body's warning signs that she needs to sit down and rest. She is certainly better off than most of the other patients who cough, sniffle, sweat and vomit. Some of them even pull out clumps of hair, just by running their fingers through it. She supposes it's only natural that she eventually start to become just as weak and sickly as the rest of them - she just hadn't thought it would happen quite so soon.

Her legs feel as though they plan to buckle beneath her at any moment, and the room is spinning dangerously, but Eleanor continues her frenetic stride, her heart pounding in her ears. It seems utterly normal that her entire body aches, considering her circumstances. She sleeps on a bench with her back against a wall made of stone. She has been whipped, drugged or sexually harassed practically every day since her confinement in this abysmal place. It's her own fault; she admits readily that she can't seem to stay out of trouble even for a day. Something about the warden and his guards just makes her want to rebel against their every wish, whether reasonable or not. So she bears her burdens quietly, and without complaint.

Pacing laboriously in front of the door from one side of the cell to the other, Nellie suddenly understands Mr. Todd's fondness for the action. It doesn't make her feel quite so useless as sitting down surely would. She feels a certain affinity towards the barber, and quickens her steps. Unbeknownst to the girl, Johanna is about to suffer the same fate as her mother. Eleanor hopes Johanna does not turn to the same drastic measures to end her suffering. She shakes her head fervently, knowing that her little Jo is stronger than her mother had ever been.

All the same, Mr. Todd will never forgive her for letting this happen to his precious girl.

Before she can contemplate the look of betrayal she imagines on his face, a high-pitched shriek followed by an angry, pained shout reverberates through the dark passageways. A quick scuffle ensues, from what she can hear from so far away. Mr. Fogg's furious yet apologetic tone is enough to make the other girls in the room whimper and shrink away from the sound of it. The slam of a heavy door is followed by hurried footsteps marching down the hall in Nellie's direction.

She practically flies to the door, catching her ailing body against the bars and peering out intently. Oscar and Harlan stride down the hall, dragging Johanna with them. The girl looks frightened beyond description, her wide-eyed gaze full of shock. Yet something new lurks in the girl's usually timid visage, something akin to satisfaction. The expression suits her, gives character to her soft features. Nellie tries to catch the girl's eye, but Johanna refuses to look in her direction.

The gentleman who chose Johanna trails behind them. His hair is sufficiently rumpled, and he carries his coat over one arm. The first five buttons of his neatly pressed white shirt are undone, as if he'd been interrupted in the middle of undressing. The man looks stunned, holding a hand to his bloodied cheek, red seeping in between his shaking fingers. Following in his wake, Mr. Fogg stalks along the hallway, nearly trembling with unabashed fury.

A flash of silver in the warden's closed fist suddenly makes it very clear what had happened and Eleanor bites back a proud smile. Johanna had been carrying Mr. Todd's razor. _Of course!_ She had entirely forgotten that she'd given it the girl - no wonder Johanna had been so complacent when they'd spirited her from the room. Just as quickly as the answer comes to her, dread fills the pit of her stomach, and acting quickly, she calls out to them before they can pass by her, "Oi, girlie! What are you doin' with my razor?"

All five of them stop in their tracks outside the redhead room, staring at Eleanor as she leans against the door and glares at Johanna. The girl, realizing what the baker is about to do and entirely alarmed by it, narrows her eyes and gives a barely perceptible shake of her head but Eleanor ignores her. Raising an eyebrow at the warden, she says, "I'll be takin' that back, please."

Mr. Fogg, holding tightly to the blood-drenched razor, steps forward. "Eleanor Lovett, are you saying that this razor is_ yours_?"

She swallows, knowing the only way to keep Johanna from a brutal punishment is to take responsibility on herself. She will not sit by and let the girl get hurt, not again. "Course it is," she insists bravely. "I pilfered it from the pocket of a visitor last Sunday; blighter should 'ave kept a closer eye on his personal effects." Turning her gaze to Johanna, she snips, "That little thief must 'ave taken it while I was sleepin'! I'll be 'avin' it back now, if ya don't mind." She holds out her hand expectantly, knowing full well that the warden would rather eat dirt than give her anything.

Mouth pressed into a line so tight that his lips turn white and nearly disappear under the pressure, Mr. Fogg regards Nellie silently for a few moments. He takes another step toward her, and Mrs. Lovett forces herself not to flinch away from him. When he speaks, he sounds surprisingly calm, considering the circumstances. "You are truly a remarkable creature, my child." He sighs, and Nellie wrinkles her nose when his breath hits her face. "And I must say, I appreciate your rather irksome habit of getting into trouble. Your tolerance for pain is quite...exhilarating to watch."

Her heart sinks at the thought of another punishment, but Eleanor's unflinching gaze doesn't waver.

Mr. Fogg isn't fazed by her lack of a reply, inclining his head toward Harlan. "Please escort Eleanor Lovett from her cell. She's coming with us."

--

It's mid-afternoon before Mr. Fogg allows Harlan and Oscar to return Mrs. Lovett to the redhead room. Hardly aware of her surroundings, and pain being the single emotion pervading her subconscious, she is unable to be relieved that her punishment is over. Barely conscious as Oscar holds her to him, the only thing keeping her from crumpling to the ground, she faintly notices Harlan unlocking the door and swinging it open.

Jerking her roughly from Oscar's grasp, Harlan dumps her to the dirty floor in a careless, bruised heap. Looking disgusted to even be in her presence, he spits at her and the saliva misses her arm by inches, congealing on the dirt and stone, making Nellie's stomach churn. She doesn't dare move for fear of causing herself anymore misery. Letting out a soft, pained whimper as the door slams shut behind him, Nellie tries to keep her eyes open and focuses on remaining conscious.

She groggily registers several people hovering over her, but consoling Tilda, Claribel and Emmy is the least of her worries. For the time being, self-preservation has taken priority. Struggling to breathe, every breath rattles desperately in her chest, Eleanor takes stock of her injuries. Bringing a violently trembling hand to her ribs, she gently nudges at her aching side and draws in a sharp, wretched cry through clenched teeth. They undoubtedly broke a rib.

Her arm throbs in protest as she drops it back to the floor and her legs are too sore to even move. There is a sharp ache in stomach and chest, and she can just imagine the bruises mapped out all over her, mottling her pale skin purple and blue. Licking her dry lips and tasting blood, she winces when her tongue probes the deep cut at the corner of her mouth. The rest of her feels too numb to account for, but by the damp sensation of blood soaking through her corset and dress, she knows there are more injuries than she is presently aware of in her semi-conscious state.

Turning over to lie on her stomach, Eleanor coughs feebly into the stone and cries out when the action sends spasms of throbbing agony through her whole body. Through blurred vision, she sees spots of blood staining the straw and dirt but her mind cannot comprehend what this could possibly mean. Blinking once, then twice, she finally turns her eyes up to the figures gathered around her, each wearing a frown of concern.

Tilda shakes her head in disapproval. "Couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?"

"She was protecting the girl," Emmy protests, turning to glare at Tilda.

Narrowing her eyes in return, Tilda snaps angrily, "The girl shouldn't have tried to off the bugger with a razor! It was her own doing, and Eleanor shouldn't have to pay for it!"

"It's called being kind," Emmy shoots back. "Not that _you'd _know anything about that particular facet of the human spirit."

Tilda huffs irritably. "There's a fine line between kindness and madness, Em."

"Hush," Claribel throws them each a warning glance. "Arguing won't do her any good." Standing from her crouched position and taking both of Eleanor's hands in hers, she says, "Help me get her to a bed."

Coughing into her hand sends screaming pain through every nerve-ending, enough to make Nellie grit her teeth to keep from crying out. She is a comforted somewhat by the fact that the blood in her palm isn't nearly as much as what had pooled on the floor. "That won't be necessary," she says hoarsely, straining for breath. She thinks about sending them away and crawling to Johanna on her own, but she doesn't think her battered body is up to the task. "But I'd be...much obliged if you would take me - " Another violent coughing fit and more dispelling of blood - although decidedly less than the last time - prevents her from finishing her sentence. She curls up on the floor, hot tears clouding her vision and pain wracking her body. She gives up on trying to speak for the time being.

However, Claribel seems to catch on to her meaning anyway and rolls her blue eyes. "To the bench, eh? You're a bloody looney, but as you wish." Nodding once to her friends, Claribel lifts Mrs. Lovett beneath the arms while Tilda and Emmy grab her legs, and Nellie stifles a cry, the whimper dying on her lips. Their touch is as gentle as possible, but even the lightest of caresses is enough to make her want to faint. The girls notice her torment despite her best efforts not to show any sort of emotion in her countenance, and murmur their soothing apologies as they slowly make their way across the room to Nellie's self-appointed corner.

Easing her gently to the bench, Tilda says, "Light as a bloomin' feather, you are," and reaches down to wipe the blood from Eleanor's chin with calloused fingers.

Claribel shoos her away, bringing a cup to Eleanor's mouth and forcing the filthy water down her throat. The water stings the cut on her lip, but when she gags and shoves the cup away, spilling some of the water onto the stones, Claribel admonishes her with a huff and says, "You need water, no matter how bloody awful it is." She forces more of it into the baker's mouth, and despite the grimy taste, it soothes her parched tongue.

When Claribel puts the cup aside and sits beside Nellie on the bench, she stares at her wearily. "What are you doin', love?"

Raising an eyebrow, Claribel sighs. "Keeping vigil over you. Trying to keep you from anymore trouble. Resting my weary bones. Whichever strikes your fancy."

Mrs. Lovett offers her a small, weak smile as Tilda and Emmy seat themselves at her feet, obviously intent on staying with her as well. "Suit yourselves, then."

The instinct of self-preservation has finally worn off, and with her limited movement, the stabbing pain in her ribs has settled into a dull ache instead. Now, only one thought is prevalent in her mind. _Johanna_. Head lolling sluggishly to her right, Eleanor finds Johanna curled up on the other side of the wall. Confined to a straight jacket, complete with chains and a heavy padlock, the blonde is fast asleep, tear stains evident on her ivory cheeks.

Noticing her scrutiny, Claribel offers helpfully, "Tossed her in a couple minutes after you left. Wrapped her up in that thing and drugged her, I imagine. She's been sleeping for hours."

Biting her lip, Nellie struggles to keep her breathing even, trying not to notice the rattling sound and sharp twinge every time she inhales too deeply. "Are you sure that's all they done to 'er?" She finds it hard to believe that the warden had let the girl off so easily for assaulting one of his clients, but when Claribel nods firmly, Nellie believes her. She'd accomplished what she'd meant to do then, shielding Johanna from any brutal punishment. She only wishes there hadn't been a reason to rescue her in the first place. When it had really mattered, when the man had come for the girl, Eleanor hadn't done a thing. It had been like Turpin taking the babe from her all over again, perhaps even more painful than the first time. Even if Mr. Todd never finds out, she'll won't ever be able to forgive herself, no matter how practical keeping her mouth shut had been.

The feel of soft fingers against her cheek rouses Eleanor from her lethargy, and she snaps to attention, finding Emmy's head against her knee and her arm reaching up to caress the baker's face. "What did they do to you, lovey? You look affright."

"She's a right mess," Tilda remarks. She squints, studying the petite pie maker in the dim light of the afternoon sun shining in through the solitary window.

Mrs. Lovett chuckles humorlessly, laying a hand atop Emmy's head. As punishment for thievery and concealing a weapon, Mr. Fogg had let his brutish guards beat her for an hour. The warden had given strict orders not to _"mar that pretty face...Mr. Taylor is paying good money for her"_, or her back, which is still bandaged and healing. With those rules only, Mr. Fogg had stepped back and allowed his guards to take out their frustrations on her.

Harlan had been particularly brutal in his kicks and punches.

"Our dear ol' warden let 'is guards kick me around for a spell, that's all. I'm sure it looks worse than it is, love," she lies cheerily and begins combing her fingers through Emmy's long, fine hair. "They all got a laugh from takin' a swing at me, at least."

"Even Oscar?" Emmy asks disbelievingly. "I thought he was different."

Tilda scoffs, drawing faces in the dirt with her fingers. "An asylum guard with a heart? Are you newly committed, Em?"

Emmy scowls but Mrs. Lovett prevents another spat between them by answering honestly, "Well, no, Oscar wasn't there. 'e _was_, but when the warden said what 'e was plannin' on doin' with me..." She trails off, looking mystified, and the girls hang on to her every word. "Oscar looked a bit ill, and scampered off. Didn't see 'im again till Fogg decided it was time for me to 'ave a rest." Nellie rolls her eyes and says tartly, "Awfully kind of 'im to give me a break, eh?"

"How strange," Emmy remarks, staring up at Nellie with wide brown eyes. "Do you think Oscar didn't want to hurt you?"

Offering the young girl a tired smile, Eleanor lets her head drop to Claribel's shoulder, allowing the woman hold her up. "Everyone wants to 'urt me, dearie," she says dryly. "Oscar's just not a violent-natured person, I s'ppose. Not many tender-'earted people like that, nowadays."

She recalls the way Mr. Fogg had held up a hand to restrain the guards and the disappointed looks on their faces at having to quit their game. Mr. Fogg had stepped forward, looking down his nose at Eleanor's bruised body, huddled on the floor. _'Are you going to behave yourself now, my dear?' _She had only glared and spit a mouthful of blood onto his scuffed boots. It had earned her a smarting cheek, but it had been worth it just to see the enraged look on his face.

"I did spit on 'im," she offers brightly to the group gathered around her, hoping to cheer them up. "Quite satisfyin', that was."

Emmy giggles into Mrs. Lovett's blood-spattered skirts. "Good on ya, lovey."

"It makes me so bloody angry!" Tilda grumbles quietly, jabbing her index fingers into the dirt pile she'd swept together. "That evil warden and his horrid bodyguards - locking people up and punishing them like it's their God-given right to purge London of people who are different. Think they own the whole sodding world!" She shakes her head angrily, jaw clenched. "They'll get theirs one day. I'll make sure of it."

Little does Tilda know, that Eleanor's thoughts are marginally similar. The only thing quite so infuriating as having men beat her senseless had been the image of Mr. Fogg standing by, watching them with a fond smile and stroking Mr. Todd's silver friend with his slimy fingers. It had made her want to use the razor against him and carve a gaping hole into his ruddy neck to see him handling the most important thing Mr. Todd owned. He had entrusted her with it, and his daughter. And she couldn't protect either of them.

--

Mr. Todd never enjoyed shopping - not even when he'd been Benjamin Barker a lifetime ago. He would often make excuses to Lucy in order to get out of having to follow her from store to store, weighed down with packages. And when Mrs. Lovett forced him to go to the market with her, he made it known at every possible opportunity that he didn't appreciate her forceful insistence and that he was _not _happy to be there. He most certainly never went shopping of his own accord.

Until now.

Armed with a list of items written in Anthony's barely legible hand, and Toby at his side, Sweeney stands in the doorway of Elias Moses and Son, wearing a blank, overwhelmed expression. Everywhere he looks there are clothes. One side of the store holds a plethora of ladies' garments, and the other houses shirts, hats, shoes, cravats and anything else a gentleman of considerable social standing could possibly desire. He has no idea where to begin, and by the look of awe on young Tobias' face, neither does he.

For a moment, they stand side by side, Toby slack-jawed and Mr. Todd frowning at a display of neck ties. Coming to his senses when an elderly gentleman brushes past him to get through the door, Mr. Todd turns his glare on the man briefly before clearing his throat and eyeing the lengthy list in front of him.

Item one : _Tailored black suit_

Scanning the store for suits, Sweeney doesn't notice the store clerk standing beside him until the young man taps him on the arm. Mr. Todd jerks away in alarm, his hand reaching for the razor in his holster. Ready to stab the offending person in the neck before they have a chance to drag him away, Sweeney swivels around to face his opponent. Seeing only a young boy, smiling at him expectantly, the barber relaxes slightly but his fingers stay poised near his razor.

"Can I help you with anything, sir?" He asks politely.

Mr. Todd is about to shake his head and send the boy away when Toby leans over him and pipes up, " 'e needs a suit. Trousers, vest, jacket, the 'ole lot."

The store clerk brightens, obviously pleased to be given a task and leads them to a far corner of the shop. Sweeney follows, glaring at Toby's back the whole way. The last thing he wants is another boy trailing after him through the store, trying to make himself useful. One is quite enough.

"There's a wide selection here, sir," the clerk gestures toward a intimidating display. "Are you looking for a certain color?"

"Black," Toby speaks for Sweeney again but the barber grudgingly admits that it suits him just fine not having to say anything at all and he settles against the nearest wall to go over his list.

Item two : _Top hat_

Too busy frowning at the idea of putting one of those ridiculous hats on his head, Mr. Todd doesn't notice Toby giving Sweeney's measurements to the shop boy, or the suit being taken behind the store counter to be picked up upon payment. Toby leans over the paper in Sweeney's hand, reads the next item and scurries off to find it.

Preparing for this new, entirely risky scheme has been more of a pain than Sweeney had initially thought. In order to convince Mr. Fogg of his gentility and wealth, quite a few changes need to be made. The first change requires him to trade in his barbering jacket for a tailored suit, and the top hat Toby is currently parading around the store in.

Pushing away from the wall to locate item three on the list - gloves - Sweeney brings a hand to his face, rubbing at the newly grown stubble there and grimacing at the alien feeling. It's part of his disguise, in hopes that the warden will not recognize him as the barber of Fleet Street, or the man who'd visited the asylum the previous Sunday. He doesn't have time to grown a full beard, but he hopes the stubble and dyeing the white streak in his hair will be enough to deter the spark of familiarity.

Taking up a pair of finely made black gloves, Mr. Todd tucks them under his arm and scans the list for the next item. _Cravat._ The colors range in hue from the dullest gray, to the most brilliant blues and reds but Sweeney decides on inconspicuous black in hopes of blending in. Holding the gloves and the cravat, he is just about to move on to the next listed item when Toby scurries up to him, holding something in his palm, the black top hat still on his head. It keeps falling into his eyes but Toby continues to push it back into its proper place, determined to wear it.

"What's this?" He asks. "D'you think Mrs. Lovett would like it? When we get 'er out, I mean?"

Averting his eyes from the lacy garment in Toby's outstretched hand, Sweeney sighs. "That's a garter, boy."

"Oh." Toby frowns, sliding it over his wrist and inspecting it carefully. "Really? Looks like a bracelet to me. We should buy mum a bracelet, I bet she'd like one."

Snatching the garment from him and inconspicuously tossing it aside, Sweeney precedes to ignore Toby, turning his eyes back to Anthony's ridiculous list. He mentally curses the sailor for leaving him to deal with this, but Anthony has more important matters to attend to today, preparing things at the docks for their departure. Toby hasn't wandered off again, like Sweeney had hoped the boy would.

"Mr. T?"

"What?" Sweeney answers distractedly, repressing the urge to huff with impatience as he tries to decide where shoes would be located.

Toby adjusts the hat on his head again. "What are corsets for?"

Startled, Sweeney turns to find Toby gawking at a display of whalebone corsets and bloomers on the other side of the store. Toby may be incredibly intelligent in the ways of the world, but he is obviously a novice when it comes to ladies undergarments - as it should be with a twelve year old boy. Deciding it would be best not to answer such a question, Sweeney resumes his silent assessment of the shop, finally spotting shoes to the left, next to a cheerful painting of poppies.

Undeterred by Sweeney's lack of a response, Toby trails after him, continuing rather loudly, "All I know is when Mrs. Lovett wears one it makes her chest - "

Whirling around on the boy with a snarl and sending Toby nearly crashing into him, Mr. Todd gives him a glowering look, nostrils flared. Toby has the good sense to back away, mouth snapping shut immediately. An elderly couple standing nearby eyes them suspiciously, both looking quite offended as they scurry off to the other side of the store, shooting Sweeney and Toby wary glances the whole way.

Toby still hasn't turned from Sweeney, and they stare at each other for several long seconds. Gulping, eyes wide and innocent, Toby asks, "What did I say?"

The truly disheartening thing is that Sweeney knows Toby really doesn't understand what he'd said. Children never do; they speak without thinking. It is an innocence that Sweeney despises in most human beings.

Giving Toby one more threatening glare, he turns and resumes his journey to the shining selection of shoes. He can't bring himself to snap at Toby for not thinking before speaking, it reminds him too much of Mrs. Lovett. The woman said whatever she happened to be thinking of at the time, etiquette be damned. While it drove him to the point of insanity quite often, it is one of the many things he now reluctantly misses.

Thinking of Mrs. Lovett makes him think of their impending escape, which he waits for with increasingly anxiety. Sweeney Todd is an efficient man, someone who needs a plan at all times, no matter what he is doing. Spontaneity is not in his character. Down to the last detail, everything is prepared, and if all goes according to plan, Mrs. Lovett and Johanna should be far away from Bedlam by the end of the week.

Even how he is going to get to the judge has been thoroughly plotted, without the knowledge of Toby or Anthony. Exactly an hour before making his way to Fogg's Asylum, Mr. Todd will be paying the _honorable _judge a visit. There will be no more brooding over Turpin's death, fantasizing about the leech's throat dripping with red. He will finally have his revenge, finally be capable of moving on with his life...

Sweeney has also gone so far in his planning as to pack a bag for Mrs. Lovett. It had been uncomfortable to go through her things without her knowledge, but there hadn't been any other way. Having never set foot in Mrs. Lovett's bedroom before, Sweeney had gotten exactly what he'd expected - pink and frills everywhere, daisies in a vase by the window, photographs and candles littering every available surface.

The only thing he hadn't planned on were the shelves upon shelves of reading material. Everything from the most degrading of romance novels to the most complex philosophy books. He hadn't been aware of Mrs. Lovett's fondness for the written word, but thinking back on quiet evenings in the parlor, he has fuzzy memories of the baker always having a book in her hand. It amazes him, the depth of his oblivion. He makes a silent vow to pay more attention from now on, at least to her.

Somewhat more unsettling was finding the pistol beneath her pillowcase. He'd given it to Anthony to use for his role in the escape, but couldn't help wondering whether Mrs. Lovett had needed protection from the filth of London, or from him.

A tugging at his coat jars Mr. Todd from his thoughts, and turning his back on shiny leather shoes, he finds Toby holding up a silver-topped stick, waving it temptingly. "What about a cane, Mr. T? Dashin', huh?"

The barber scowls; there is nothing he loathes more than a superfluous cane.

Getting the hint, Toby places it back down and looks up at the older man under the brim of the top hat. His mouth twists to the side, like he is deliberating with himself. Sweeney watches with detached interest, wondering what else the child could possibly have to say.

"Mr. T? " He asks, and Sweeney stares in return. "What's a girdle?"

* * *

A/N - Hello lovies! I'm sorry it took a while, but school kept me pretty busy for a week or so, and then I went to Tennessee for a couple of days for Winterfest. It was pretty fantabulous. Mondo thanks to Robynne, Super Beta Extraordinaire. I'm thinking of buying her a monogrammed cape, just to make it official. Thank you all so much for your reviews, I can't express how wonderful it is to have your lovely feedback. Plus, I'm addicted to reviews, so there's that:D

Lilia-Rose - Haha, I think Nellie tries to annoy Fogg because, for one, she can't stand him, and for another, she's bored out of her mind. Silly games like that, whether they get her punished or not, are a form of entertainment for her, a way to keep a tight hold on her sanity. Plus, annoying the warden is a pretty fun game:D Also, they didn't use maggots necessarily to heal her cuts, they used the maggots on her whip marks to eat away dead flesh and prevent an infection from manifesting itself. The marks themselves will have to heal on their own. Anyhow, I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter. Thanks so much for the review!


	9. Rearrange Me 'Til I'm Sane

The Shadow Proves The Sunshine 

The basement of Fogg's asylum holds many foreboding memories for Eleanor Lovett, the likes of which she won't soon forget. This is where all of her punishments have been meted out, where her suffering has been at its most wretched. Now, lying atop the operating table and struggling to breathe, Nellie has a new reason to despise this room.

Several strong guards hold her down, despite the fact that she feels too weak to get away and they'd had to physically carry her down to the basement. Nellie glares up at the doctor hovering over her, measuring something out of a purple vial. This is another facet of her continuing punishment; Mr. Fogg had decided that just beating her was not enough. Her punishment now includes going without food or water, and being forced to take whatever drug the doctor wants to experiment with.

Obviously satisfied with the amount in the vial, the doctor looks down at her over the spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose, and makes a humming noise. "Open up now, my dear," he says, his voice scratchy and gruff.

Nellie almost laughs at him, tickled at the notion that she would ever willingly take anything he offered her. However, having discovered that laughing sends pain screaming through her whole body, she wisely stays silent. The guards now holding her in place are the same ones who had taken such pleasure in beating her into unconsciousness just yesterday, and the wounds are still fresh. Her body is still in the process of recuperating from the shock of being assaulted in such a way, bruises are beginning to turn purple, and cuts have finally stopped seeping blood. Her rib merely aches as long as she remains stationary, but blossoms into complete agony if she coughs, laughs, or really moves much at all.

Frowning at her lack of cooperation, the doctor nods to the guard at her right. The guard, Ernest, reaches up to smack Mrs. Lovett across the mouth and she gasps when it reopens the cut at the corner of her lips. Taking advantage of her weakened defenses, the doctor pours the liquid into Eleanor's open mouth.

She gags, choking as she reluctantly swallows the medicine. Sharp, lasting pain blooms in her chest, spreading like wildfire to the rest of her body. Try as she might, she can't stop the tears from building behind her eyes, the pain too intense to ignore. She wants only to curl up on the operating table and wait for it to go away. The doctor's vile concoction has other plans. The medicine doesn't settle well in her empty stomach, and Eleanor feels the brief, churning sensation of nausea overcome her before being forced to bend over the table and cough it back up.

Shocked by the unpleasant splatter on his shiny boots, the doctor glares at her and this time, smacks her himself. The sharp sting is a mere slap on the wrist compared to the agony vomiting has caused her. Clutching at her ribs and gasping for breath, Eleanor fights to keep from screaming.

Ernest snickers to himself at her misfortune as the doctor sends for someone to wipe up the mess and begins measuring out a new dose to give to her. The guard obviously still smarts from the black eye Nellie had given him on her first day.

The doctor shoos him away and leans over Eleanor, holding her jaw roughly and forcing her mouth open. Tilting the contents of the vial down her throat, he murmurs, "Keep this one down, eh?"

The medicine tastes bitter and sour on her tongue, but Nellie manages not to gag again, knowing how much it would hurt. By sheer force of will, she manages to repress her stomach's desire to dispel the drug all over the floor again.

"You may notice your eyes beginning to water," the doctor mutters, describing the drug's side effects as he busies himself with wiping at his ruined shoes. "Your skin may itch or become red." He stops, shrugging carelessly. "Or you may simply die. We shall see, hmm?" He smiles and straightens, patting her red curls as though petting an obedient lapdog.

Nellie wants nothing more than to be close enough to bite his hand; she doesn't realize she's said this out loud until the doctor smacks her again, sending her away with Ernest and Harlan to be put back in the redhead room. Faintly amused by the incident, she wonders if the doctor will add 'unable to keep mouth shut' to his fancy list of side effects. She is still giggling to herself about it when she collapses stiffly onto the bench in her cell, breathless. She tries not to laugh too hard or breathe too deeply, knowing it will only cause her pain in the end.

Having crawled to the bench on her hands and knees, too weak to stand, she struggles to regulate her breaths. It startles Nellie to hear Johanna's voice in the darkness. "What's so funny?" She warily eyes the redhead from the other side of the wall.

"Oh, well I - " Mrs. Lovett frowns, suddenly unable to remember what had been so hilarious to her only moments ago. _Must be another side effect_... "Nothin' important, love. Now, 'ow are you feelin'?"

Whatever sedative they'd plied Johanna with had worn off during the night, and the warden had released her from her straight jacket merely hours ago. Johanna had obviously gotten the better end of this punishment, but Nellie can't help worrying about her anyway.

The girl smiles tiredly. "I'm feeling much better, thank you. What about you? What did they do to you down there?"

"Not much," Nellie says, wondering if her words sound slurred to anyone but herself. "Played a nice game with the doctor, that's all."

Johanna's brow furrows and she leans in closer. "Are you sure you're all right? You sound...different."

Eleanor ignores the question, voicing the concern that has been plaguing throughout the night and the better part of the morning. She hasn't had the courage to ask until now, the calming effect of the drug emboldening her. "Did he touch you? That man, I mean?"

Chin tilted up proudly, Johanna says, "He didn't have a chance to, ma'am."

"Tha's m'girl," Nellie murmurs, smiling.

"Blimey, Eleanor," a voice calls from across the cell. "You sound bloody piss drunk. Drugged ya, didn't they?"

Nellie turns to frown at Tilda; she hadn't wanted Johanna to know they're still punishing her for what happened with the razor. Johanna had very nearly cried herself silly when she'd discovered that they'd beaten Nellie. The girl doesn't need any more anxiety. However, upon facing Tilda, Eleanor notices that while Claribel is crouched nearby, Emmy is not within sight. The young redhead is usually never away from her friends, and scanning the room quickly, Eleanor can tell that she isn't even present.

"Where'd Emmy run off to?" She asks, hoping to draw the conversation away from herself. "Finally make a break for it?"

Claribel glances up fiddling with a piece of ratty string she'd pulled from her tattered dress. "Warden took her while you were gone. Put her in the chair again."

"Bollocks," Eleanor swears tiredly. The whirling chair, or The Chair, as it's referred to by everyone in the asylum, is one of the more mild punishments compared with lobotomies and hydro-therapy, which Nellie has thankfully yet to experience, but it still has its foreboding reputation. Its purpose, according to the girls, is to spin the patient around very quickly and continuously until the patient passes out. It's done in hopes of rearranging the contents of the brain and restoring a patient's sanity. There are rumors that the warden sometimes continues to spin the patient even after they've blacked out. Who knows what state the girl will be in when she returns...

Claribel squints in the dim light, brow creased with concern as she studies the baker. "Sure you're alright, Eleanor?"

"I'm fine," she says, but she's not sure who she's trying to reassure - Claribel, Johanna, or herself.

Despite her protests, Eleanor isn't sure she's as fine as she claims. It's getting harder to think, or even speak properly. The room begins to spin ever-so-slightly. Mrs. Lovett is the sort of woman who looks at a glass of gin as half full, rather than half empty, and she'd been hoping the worst that would happen is watery eyes, or blotchy skin. Obviously, her symptoms are closer to the less desirable option of death, which doesn't sit well with her at all.

"Mrs. Lovett?" Johanna whispers, reaching through the wall to grasp Nellie's arm with slim fingers. "You don't look well. Perhaps you should lie down?"

"M'fine," Eleanor insists again, but she clutches at the wall for support, suddenly unable to hold herself up. "Just terribly dizzy, tha's all."

"What did they give her?" Johanna calls shrilly to Tilda, her voice rich with panic.

Tilda snorts, and when she speaks, she sounds much closer than Nellie remembers. "Bloody hell, girl, how should I know? That doctor's got gobs of little bottles down there."

She wants to tell them again that she's fine, but her vision is fuzzy, and what she can see is doubled; so she doesn't say anything and lets the drug take its toll. As Tilda and Johanna continue to squabble over the baker's condition, Eleanor wonders what Mr. Todd would think of her continuous punishments for being caught with his razor. She wonders if it would pain him to know that what he had given her to protect herself with had ultimately led to a brutal punishment.

Nellie sighs to herself, swaying slightly in her seat, the room spinning madly. "If only your father could see this. Bloody man would find it so amusing." She knows she's saying too much, but she can't seem to stop talking. The words spill from her lips in a slurred rush despite her best efforts to remain quiet. That quack of a doctor can add 'may spill deepest secrets' to the growing list of side effects. "Always liked to mock me, 'e did. Even all those years ago."

She recalls, even to this day, when Benjamin had come downstairs into her shop early one morning and found her standing atop her counter, caught on a cabinet and unable to jump down. She'd climbed onto the counter to rummage through the cabinets for a particular ingredient. Her foot had slipped at the end of the counter, and she'd managed to catch herself on the wall before she tumbled to the ground, but her skirts had gotten snagged on the sharp edge of a cabinet. Unable to reach down and untangle them without removing her hands from the wall and sending herself crashing to the floor, she'd been standing there, leaning on the wall with her skirts caught halfway up her knees for the better part of half an hour before Mr. Barker found her. After he'd finished blushing at the sight of her stockings and stifling laughter at her misfortune, he'd untangled the hem of her skirt and reached out a hand to gently guide her back to the floor. The mere warmth of her hand in his had been exhilarating - her fingers had tingled for hours afterward. Of course, he'd never let her forget her unfortunate accident, up until the day he was taken away. He slipped in a sly comment whenever he found the opportunity. He'd wink and say, _"Need anything from the cabinets today, Mrs. Lovett? Do remember not to get too _caught up _in your work, you know how dangerous that can be."_

"My father?" Johanna asks, her voice dragging Nellie cruelly away from the past, where memories were much warmer.

Having a hard time focusing her eyes on anything at the moment, Mrs. Lovett closes them and nods. "Mr. To-Barker. Mr. Barker. Benjamin." Her eyes fly open, and she lends her unfocused gaze to the ceiling as her hands tighten into the blood encrusted skirts of her dress. She doesn't breathe, daring to hope that Johanna will overlook her second near-blunder.

The girl isn't nearly so oblivious, and her voice is hard when she says, "You almost said Mr. Todd."

"No I didn't," Eleanor says airily.

"You did," Johanna insists, frowning. Then, almost to herself, "Why would you do that?"

Eleanor scoffs, her heart pounding frantically in her ears. "Oh love, don't pay attention to a word I say. This drug is makin' me feel utterly daft."

Lips pursed, Johanna pays her no mind, shaking her head slowly. "Our eyes. You said we had the same eyes, and when I saw Mr. Todd here that day, I was struck by how very similar his were to mine. And the _way _he looked at me...But I didn't think anything of it until now." Her mouth tightens. "You said my father was dead, Mrs. Lovett."

Voice unnaturally high in her panic, Nellie squeaks, "W-what are you goin' on about, you silly thing? Honestly, I'm beginnin' to think they drugged _you _and not me. Such nonsense."

"The truth, please," Johanna says primly, her eyes flashing in the gloomy afternoon light peeking in through the window.

A strange drowsiness washes over her. Nellie is fairly certain by this point that death is a likely side effect, but at least she no longer feels any pain from her injuries. The numbing sensation is quite lovely. "Mr. Todd can't be your father, love. 'is name is Sweeney Todd, your father was Benjamin Barker. Sent away to Bot'ny Bay for a crime 'e didn't commit. They're two completely diff'rent men."

Johanna doesn't look convinced. Glancing at her lap, she sighs. "I was alone quite a lot when I lived with Judge Turpin. I would often sneak into his study and read his books. Several of them spoke of Botany Bay. If my father escaped, he would come back a different man. A changed man. Of course, he would also need to change his name. He couldn't very well come back with the same identity, he would just be sent back."

"That's 'ardly enough evidence to claim a man is your father, little Jo," Eleanor murmurs, sleep weighing heavy on her half-closed lids. Her fingers relax their tight hold on her skirts, her panic at being found out quelled by the strong drug coursing steadily through her veins.

"That's not all," Johanna says, sounding more lively than Nellie has ever heard her. "You knew me when I was a child, you knew my parents. My father was a barber, Mr. Todd is a barber." She smiles, obviously very pleased her with deductive skills. "I'm his daughter. Why else would Mr. Todd be so willing to help Anthony rescue me?"

Eleanor sighs. She can't possibly insult the girl's intelligence by denying it any longer. It's a shame really, she thinks. If Johanna had been a simple thing, she might have been able to convince her otherwise quite easily. Mr. Todd's daughter has an uncanny ability to read her like no one else, and Nellie doesn't fancy being caught in another lie. "Alright love, ya figured it out. Congratulations - I'll bake you a bloomin' pie."

Johanna's mouth twists sourly, her victory no longer so sweet. "You lied to me." Her eyes - _so much like her father's _- are wounded. "Why would you do that? I was beginning to trust you, Mrs. Lovett."

She shrugs, ignoring how much it hurts to hear the word 'beginning'. Hadn't she done enough to deserve this girl's trust? What had Turpin done to her, to make her so wary of other people? "Wasn't my secret to tell, love."

"What about my mother?" Johanna asks coldly, regarding Nellie with distrustful eyes. "You lied about my father, you could very well have lied about her as well. Is she out there someone, Mrs. Lovett, a different person now like my father?"

Nellie stiffens instantly but she forces her body to relax, knowing Johanna is watching her like a hawk. She thinks of the beggar woman roaming the streets, selling herself for alms, always loitering near Judge Turpin's house and never understanding why. "No, darling. Your mother is dead, I'm sorry."

Johanna face crumples and she nods softly, eyes filled with remorse. "I'm sorry Mrs. Lovett, I don't know what came over me. I - "

"Don't, love," Nellie interrupts firmly. "You 'ad every right to ask." A small measure of silence follows before Mrs. Lovett hears Johanna giggle softly to herself, and she raises an eyebrow, wondering if she is hearing things or if madness is truly contagious. "You alright over there?"

Another muffled peal of laughter echoes through the cells as Johanna struggles to speak. "Yes, I'm sorry," she breathes, still smiling. "It's just...you beat my father with a rolling pin!"

The girl sounds so incredibly scandalized at this that Johanna's discovery isn't quite so serious anymore; the girl has taken the whole thing in stride. Eleanor can think of nothing to do but give in and burst into hysterics with her blonde companion. "Ya should 'ave seen 'is face," she snickers, and Johanna nearly howls with laughter as the baker attempts to imitate Mr. Todd's look of shock. "Never seen 'im run so fast." They collapse into laughter that dances on the edge of madness, giggling until they're left gasping for breath, leaning into the wall, hands intertwined.

Wiping tears of mirth from her cheeks, Mrs. Lovett expels a long, exasperated breath through her nose. "Bloody good thing I don't feel much right now, or that would 'ave 'urt somethin' awful."

Having caught her breath and gathered up the remnants of her proper upbringing, Johanna straightens from her slouch and squares her shoulders. Clearing her throat, she says, "I can understand that it wasn't your place to reveal my father's identity, but now that you have...would you tell me about him?"

Nellie sighs. "About who? Mr. Barker or Mr. Todd?"

"Aren't they the same man?" Johanna asks, frowning.

"Quite the opposite, actually," Nellie smiles thinly. "Benjamin Barker is Sweeney Todd, but Sweeney Todd is not Benjamin Barker."

Johanna touches her fingers to the crumbling brick between them. "I'm not sure I understand."

"He's not the same man anymore, love. He will never be sweet, naive Benjamin ever again." Eleanor settles back against the wall, ignoring the way the rough stones scrapes against the bandages blanketing her back. She has been dreading this conversation since she spotted Johanna through the wall on her very first day here. "Mr. Todd carries Benjamin's memories, 'is burdens, but 'e is no longer that man, if you catch my drift."

"Yes," Johanna murmurs, her mouth twisting in such a way that reminds Nellie too much of Mr. Todd. "I should like to learn about the man he is now, if it's alright. It doesn't matter who he was before."

Johanna's determination is almost admirable. Tapping her fingers rhythmically against the edge of the bench, Eleanor tries to decide what to tell the girl. What would she like to know about her own father, if given the chance? She wouldn't care so much about what societies he belonged to, or how much money he made. It's the little details, she thinks, that really make up a person. Eyes slipping closed, the baker tries her best to draw from her memory the things Johanna might like to learn about Mr. Todd. It isn't as easy as she'd hoped, with the drug clouding her mind, muddling her thoughts and turning them to soup. She pictures him behind her closed lids - those dark, haunted eyes, his mouth, something she focuses on quite often when he's near, twisted with his disapproval of humanity. Somehow, picturing him, it's much easier to think of something to say.

"Well...'e's quite clever, got a good 'ead on 'is shoulders. Always did. 'e tends to be a bit on the gruff side, even after you get to know 'im, but the poor dear can't 'elp it. It's just 'is nature now." Nellie's mouth quirks, thinking of the way he speaks to her even now, after knowing her for nearly twenty years. It's always 'No thank you, Mrs. Lovett' or 'That will be all, Mrs. Lovett'. He stiffens automatically whenever she drifts closer than three feet away from him. "Mr. Todd isn't one for affection, unless he wants something, and then e's utterly deceptive and charming. 'e doesn't smile much, but when 'e does, you feel like you're seein' somethin' extraordinary. 'e paces when e's anxious, and 'e's got quite a temper on 'im when 'e gets in one of 'is moods. I do believe 'e is without question the most stubborn man alive."

She stops when tears begin to sting her eyes and draws in a sharp breath. Until that moment, she hadn't realized just how much she missed that useless excuse for a man. There is an ever-growing ache in her chest, a hole that deepens whenever she so much as thinks about him and it drives her mad, knowing he's probably enjoying every moment of silence he gets without her around. Gathering herself impressively, she breathes, " 'e loves you very much, darlin."

The silence grows between them as Johanna slowly takes in this new information and Eleanor's thoughts turn once again to the man who keeps her heart clenched tightly in his fist. Nearly a week has gone by since the last time she heard from him, and she has a sinking feeling that she won't ever see him again. Surely with his diabolical mind, he's had time to come up with _something. _Why hasn't he rescued them yet? Perhaps he has realized that he doesn't need her, that he has no use for a woman who hits him with a rolling pin. Nellie can no longer ignore the fact that Mr. Todd may very well allow her to languish in here.

"Mrs. Lovett?" Johanna asks, her soft voice cutting through the silence. "If I ask you a question, do you promise to answer truthfully?"

Eleanor snorts, tucking her head into the corner of the wall and bringing her legs up to rest in front of her on the bench. "Depends, I s'ppose."

Drawing in a deep breath, as if for courage, Johanna whispers, "Do you love my father?"

Heart fluttering wildly, Eleanor swallows past the lump in her throat. "Why would you ask that, love?"

"The way you speak of him," Johanna says matter-of-factly, fiddling nervously with the lace of her skirts. "I have no doubt that you're very fond of him but it seems as though there is more to your feelings than admiration or friendship. Forgive me if I'm being intrusive, but I must know - do you love him?"

"Doesn't matter," Nellie sighs, too tired to put up any more of a fight. The drug coursing through her is demanding sleep, and Johanna is preventing her from obeying its command. "Your father is as loyal as 'e is stubborn. 'e loves your mother, Jo, and 'e always will."

Johanna bites her lip, tightening her grip on the lace in her fingers. "But...my mother is gone. What harm is there in my father being with you?"

"S'not that easy, love," Nellie answers groggily, eyes slipping closed against her will. "Your father clings to 'is memories like they're a raft and 'es a drownin' man. 'e isn't one to just _let go _of the past. I don't know if 'e ever will."

"You can't give up," Johanna says earnestly. "People can change. You said yourself that my father is terribly stubborn."

Eleanor chuckles sleepily. "I may be patient, love, but even I 'ave my limits. I've been pinin' for that man 'alf my life, I think it's time I gave up and stopped waitin' for 'im to realize I've been 'ead over 'eels for 'im since the first time 'e smiled at me."

Being in this place, face to face with harsh reality, has done something to her hopes. Damaged them irreversibly. Eleanor has always been a practical woman, never one to indulge in silly dreams - except where Sweeney Todd is concerned. He is the one thing she has never been able to think logically about. In this room, unable to hide behind her sunny fantasies, she knows she can't continue this way. When he looks at her, he's merely looking through her. He sees only precious blue eyes and golden curls. Mr. Todd will never love her, and she is going to stop hoping.

All is quiet for now, and Johanna seems to be contemplating something. Eleanor, her new resolve firmly in place, feels herself drifting off to sleep or unconsciousness and whichever it is, she welcomes it with open arms. Johanna's quietly uttered words are the last she hears before the world fades to black.

"I would very much like if you married my father."

--

Nearly an hour later, Nellie awakes to muffled sobbing and Claribel's soft cooing. Opening her eyes groggily and blinking rapidly to shake off the last remnants of sleep, she sits up and looks around for the cause of the noise. It doesn't take her long to find Tilda and Claribel crowded around Emmy, who sits between them in tears, her pale skin flushed red.

Without thinking, Nellie breathes in deeply, trying to gather her wits about her. She hisses through her teeth when the action sends her doubling over in pain. It's obvious now that the drug has worn off, whatever it was, and she's returned to constant aches. She supposes it has to be better than spilling her guts to a sixteen year old girl in a drug-induced stupor. She shudders as she thinks back on all the things she said to Johanna, things she would never normally divulge to the girl, or any other soul for that matter. Glancing briefly over her shoulder, she sees the blonde asleep, slouched against the wall.

Relieved that she won't have to face the girl for a while yet, Eleanor turns her attention back to group crouched together on the floor. She clears her throat, and when Tilda glances up, Eleanor nods her head in their direction. "What's 'appened?"

Tilda scowls at the floor as Emmy settles against Claribel's chest and sniffles. "Warden tossed her in a few minutes ago, the loathsome little cockroach. She spent nearly two hours in that chair!"

Still gently hushing Emmy, Claribel smooths the girl's damp hair away from her eyes. "She's dizzy, threw up just before you woke. Godawful headache too."

Nellie frowns, watching Emmy attempt to calm herself, trying not to look too envious when she takes several deep breaths without experiencing any pain. She hates to see the young girl so distraught; she's usually the loudest of them all, with a spirit too vibrant for a place like this. Emmy is always the first to join in whenever Nellie invents a new game to amuse themselves, the first to laugh at her silly stories. It's painful to watch the girl cry into Claribel's shoulder, her vivacity slowly being sucked away.

Grunting with the exertion, Nellie slowly raises herself to her feet, her whole body screaming in protest. If it will cheer up Emmy, then a little pain will be worth it. "I propose a game," she says lightly, her movements stiff as she inches her way to the door of the room, clinging to the wall for support.

"A game?" Tilda looks at her like she really has lost her mind, but Eleanor only glances quickly at Emmy, and Tilda understands. Her expression cool, she asks with mild interest, "What kind of game?"

Finally making it to the door, Eleanor grips the bars to hold herself up and slowly turns to face her friends. "Anyone 'ere like to bet?" She asks, a wicked grin on her lips.

Tilda smirks, watching as Emmy immediately stops sniffling, her eyes watching Nellie's every move. "I'm in," Tilda says, running her fingers through short hair.

"Me too," Emmy says, sitting up a little straighter, holding a hand to her aching head. "What are we betting for?"

Not bothering to wait for Claribel to join them, Eleanor taps her fingers against the bars contemplatively. Suddenly, an impish smile lights her features, and she feels more mischievous than she has in days. "I'm goin' to ask for a bottle o' gin, and I'm goin' to get it. Who 'ere wants to wager otherwise?"

Claribel stares. "You're going to ask for a bottle of gin? _Bloody hell_, do you _like _being beaten?!"

Eleanor ignores her. "Who wants to bet five shillings?"

Still gawking at her, Claribel frowns. "We haven't got any money in here."

"That's the point love," Eleanor continues, looking at Claribel like her meaning should be blatantly obvious by now. "I bet five; anyone want to up the anty?"

"Ten," Emmy pipes up, still looking rather dizzy and disoriented.

Nellie beams. "Now you've got it." She offers Claribel and Tilda a raised brow. "Well? Anythin' to add?"

"Ten," they both say in unison, both of them still wearing puzzled expressions.

"Smashing," she flashes them a smile and gingerly turns to stare down the hallway. She hears the muffled voices of the guards gathered at the end of the corridor, conversing together in hushed whispers. Her palms are sweating, making her fingers falter in their grip on the bars, but she wipes them quickly on her skirts and clings to the door again. Trembling, she licks her lips and calls out, "Oscar?"

The voices stop immediately to listen as the other lunatics echo Nellie's call and then she hears a gruff voice snort, "Sounds like you got yourself an admirer, Oscar."

"Sod off," Oscar laughs, and Nellie hears the distinct sound of heavy footsteps loping down the stone hall, and several other pairs of boots marching off in the opposite direction.

As the footfalls draw nearer, Tilda hisses, "What are you doing, Eleanor? Get away from there!"

Nellie's only response is to slip her arm through the bars and wiggle her fingers, directing Oscar toward her. "Over 'ere, love," she calls.

Wearing an expression somewhere between irritation and amusement, Oscar approaches the door to the redhead room, eyeing her warily through the bars. "You want something?"

She nods, giving him a coy smile. "I just wanted to give you my thanks, for bein' so...'umane, compared to the others." She curls her fingers around the bars again and blinks innocently up at him. "You're different."

Oscar's only reply is a stunned expression.

Nellie reaches sly fingers through the bars and toys with a loose button on his coat, keeping her eyes averted. She continues, encouraged when he doesn't see right through her flirtation. "You care about people. At least, you certainly don't throw me about like a lit'le rag dolly. I think it's lovely when a man can be so sensitive...shows a certain strength."

He snorts derisively and brushes her hands from his coat. "Alright, what do you want?"

She shifts her weight, hoping her eyes are vulnerable enough to be believable. "I was actually 'opin', dearie, that you could slip me a bottle of gin, per'aps?" Oscar looks stricken and Nellie hurries to explain herself. Pressing her hand lightly to her side and giving him an exaggerated grimace, she rasps, "It 'urts somethin' awful right now, and I'm just so bloody 'ungry. I was wonderin' if you could spare a lady somethin' to take the edge off."

He begins to shake his head, waving his hands in front of him and backing away. "I don't think - "

"Please, love," she pleads weakly. "No one 'as to know." Looking up at him with big brown eyes, Nellie suddenly wishes she'd learned to cry on command - it would be most useful right now. Instead, she catches her bottom lip between her teeth and gives him her most pitiful look.

Oscar stares at her, torn between walking away and giving in. Finally, shoving his hands into his pockets, broad shoulders drooping, he heaves a great sigh and steps close to the bars. "Don't move. I'll be back."

Nellie's smile is radiant as he turns and quickly walks away, scurrying down the hall and out of sight. Swiveling around with the utmost care to face her open-mouthed friends, she says, "Gin is on the way, loves."

Tilda snorts. "Who says you don't belong in here? You're as bonkers as they come."

"Say what you want," Nellie smirks. "But you all owe me ten shillings each."

Claribel laughs, stroking Emmy's hair. "Eleanor, if that man actually comes back with a bottle of gin, I'll steal from the bleedin' queen of England to pay you back."

Delighted with this turn of events, Emmy giggles, "This is without question, my favorite game so far."

It pleases Eleanor to hear it, considering the amount of trouble she could get into for this latest scheme. Even now, she worries that Oscar has gone to retrieve the warden instead of alcohol, but in a few minutes, she hears only one set of footsteps coming toward her. She peers through the bars and spots Oscar walking hurriedly toward her, something concealed in his jacket.

When he reaches the redhead room, he slides the item from concealment and shoves it through the bars, into Nellie's waiting hands. "Hide it," he says urgently. "Don't let anyone see, understand?"

She nods gratefully, wrapping shaking fingers around the bottle and hugging it to her chest. "You could lose your job, love," she says softly, peering up at him. "Why are you riskin' this for me?"

Oscar studies her silently for a moment, before the corner of his mouth lifts into a small grin. "Because you're not crazy."

--

Stalking through the streets of London, trying his best to stick to the shadows, Sweeney Todd is the epitome of murderous rage and nervous energy. The dark look on his face is enough to make those he comes in contact with do their best to stay away from him - slinking hastily past him in dark alleys, crossing the street to walk on the other side when he comes toward them.

Of course, the scowl on his face is perfectly understandable to those who know the reasons behind it. Today, he masquerades as an upper class gentleman and slithers into the filthy asylum to spirit away Mrs. Lovett and his daughter.

Today is the day he has been looking toward for fifteen years. Today, he kills Judge Turpin.

Slipping stealthily into another darkened alleyway, his purposeful strides echoing off the cobbled lane, Mr. Todd glares ahead of him - the roofs of the houses on Turpin's street are just visible from his vantage point. Under the guise of forgetting an item essential to their mission, he had been able to sneak away from the curious eyes of Anthony and the boy in order to carry out this last part of the plan.

The time has finally come for Turpin to pay for his sins at the hand of one of his victims. The justice of it is enough to make Mr. Todd shiver as he peers at the manor from across the street, lurking near a bench by the sidewalk and trying not to look suspicious. The house looms above all others imposingly, the most spacious on the quaint little lane. Large and neatly kept, it has an air of arrogance too similar to that of its owner.

Menacing gargoyles glare down at passerby, warning off any who would even think of entering the gates without permission. An iron fence gives the appearance of keeping out trespassers, but Sweeney knows better now. He knows the real purpose of that fence was to keep his daughter inside, locked away from the world, confined in a gilded cage with her guardian.

The afternoon is a warm one, compared with most cold and rainy days in London. The maid has opened several windows on the first and second floors, hoping the warm breeze will cleanse the stale air of the closed-up manor. From his view across the street, Sweeney sees the young maid standing in the front yard, her bonnet hanging loosely around her neck and her hair pulled up. Conversing quietly with what Mr. Todd assumes to be the gardener, she has an authoritative air about her as she points out certain areas that need pruning and tending to as they survey the property together.

Attitude changing quite suddenly, the girl turns to the young man with a lascivious smile on her lips. She begins to walk backwards toward the back of the house, reaching out a hand for the gardener's. He takes it eagerly enough, and she blushes like an innocent child as he leads her away, both of them disappearing around the corner.

With the attention of the maid elsewhere, a more perfect opportunity would never present itself. His face giving away nothing, Sweeney makes his way across the lane with cat-like grace, approaching the gate and the glaring gargoyles, devoid of trepidation. The gate swings open silently on its hinges when he pushes with his fingers, and he steps into the yard, striding up the walkway to the front door. Mr. Todd almost smiles when the knob turns easily. _Too easy_. He pushes the door open, stealing quietly inside.

The house is silent except for the ornate grandfather clock ticking away the minutes in the expensively decorated foyer, but Turpin is here. He has to be. Sweeney doesn't bother taking in any of the paintings, sculptures or pieces of furniture, thinking it best not to dwell on the wealth Turpin is surrounded with. His mind is focused solely on one thing - finding and killing Judge Turpin. Anything else would simply be too much to wrap his head around.

As much as he wants to revel in the murder of this man, to bask in the revenge he has waited fifteen years for, he cannot. As the grandfather clock announces, chiming throughout the house, he has exactly one hour to complete his task before he is expected to appear on the doorstep of Fogg's Asylum with the interest of finding a redhead for several shillings. This will have to be a quick affair, without torture or gloating, and part of the barber is glad for it. He grows tired of dwelling on Turpin, realizing now how much energy he wastes on a man who doesn't deserve to draw another breathe, let alone be the subject of the barber's every waking thought, the drive behind his very life force. He is ready to stop wondering what it will feel like to have the judge's throat beneath his blade, he is ready to put his curiosity and his bloodlust to rest.

Blocking out every item that could possibly have sentimental value, like portraits or pillows Johanna could have stitched, Mr. Todd prowls about the first floor as silent as the grave, searching every room for the cowardice filth that resides within the walls. Finally, on the first floor, near the back of the house, he finds Turpin in a dimly lit room lined with books. Peering around the doorframe, Mr. Todd sneers as he watches the man who ruined his life flip idly through the pages of a book, leafing through it as though he has his whole life to while away.

Just what Benjamin Barker thought, all those years ago. A simple-minded young man sure that he had his whole life ahead of him, one with his beautiful wife and daughter, filled with friends and happy memories. Turpin had taken that from him, taken away the hope of ever having a normal life with his family, of watching his daughter mature, or growing old with his Lucy. His precious Lucy, his sweet, virtuous wife. Her innocence had been stolen by this man, this foul, loathsome devil lounging in a plush leather armchair.

Fueled by hatred, Sweeney reaches for the razor snug in its holster on his belt, slim fingers itching to unfold the weapon and fulfill its purpose. With Mrs. Lovett being as confined as she's been, he hasn't had the liberty of practicing in the last week and a half, but he has every confidence that his hand will be steady nonetheless. Sliding the razor from the holster and concealing it in his fist, Mr. Todd takes his first deliberate step into the room.

Turpin's reaction is immediate. Glancing up from his page, obviously expecting the maid, his eyes widen upon seeing Sweeney instead. Flinging his book aside, ignoring the loud thump when it hits the wall, he rises quickly to his feet. "Mr. Todd," he says in his deep, smarmy voice and Sweeney wants to gag at the mere sound of it, his blood boiling with the increasing urge to silence him forever. "Who let _you _in?"

Sweeney smiles, repressing the urge to spit in the man's face. "Terribly sorry, sir, but your charming maid is outside with the gardener. She said I should let myself in."

He relaxes slightly at this, his stance a little less guarded, although the change in his expression is an unpleasant one. Smirking, he lowers himself back onto his chair and picks up the glass of whiskey sitting on a nearby table. "If you've come to negotiate the release of your pie maker, I can assure you that you are wasting your time."

Mr. Todd raises eyebrow as he stands threateningly still in the middle of the room, a lone, ragged figure in a room of shameless opulence.

Turpin continues, taking up another book from the table and beginning to glance idly through it. "I heard about her little display, carrying on like some mad harlot, and I have no intention of letting her gallivant through the streets with that insanity lurking just beneath the surface." He takes a dreg from his glass, ignoring Sweeney's glowering stare. "It's a shame, really. I've had my eye on the widow since her shop reopened. Pretty little thing, isn't she?" He makes a soft tsk-ing noise in the back of his throat, his eyes glazed over. "Oh well. It seems all the pretty ones end up in Bedlam."

He looks oddly wistful, but Sweeney doesn't have time to contemplate what he's going on about. Fist tightening imperceptibly around the warm silver in his hand, Mr. Todd murmurs quietly, "It would seem, sir, that we still have fellow tastes in women."

Turpin frowns, rubbing at the stubble upon his cheek as he glances up from his page. "What's that?" He asks, his voice colored with his amusement.

Mr. Todd's lips twist into a mocking smile, dark eyes glittering in the light. "The years no doubt have changed me, sir." He takes another step, not trying to hide the razor now as he unfolds it, never taking his eyes from Turpin's alarmed ones. He hisses venomously, "But I imagine the face of a barber, the face of a prisoner in the dark, is not particularly memorable."

Recognition dawns on Turpin's countenance, and his expression is the one of horror Sweeney has always imagined in his darkest fantasies. His words are dripping with dread, "Benjamin Barker."

"_Benjamin Barker!_"

The first spurt of warm red is like salve to a wound, the way he feels when he lets Mrs. Lovett's soothing words wash over him instead of bouncing off his armor of steel. Stopping at just slitting his throat is an impossibility, and Sweeney lets the rage consume him as he stabs repeatedly at Turpin's despicable neck, his chest, and anywhere else his wide arc will reach.

A wild swing and Lucy is beaming at him, her blurry face as radiant as he remembers. "Benjamin," she'd always said, her laugh like the tinkling peal of a bell. "If you don't stop your daydreaming, I'm afraid one of your poor customers is going to suffer a slit throat! Concentrate, my love."

_This is for Lucy. _

Another and Johanna is a mere babe in the arms of Benjamin Barker, wailing for her mother, tears rolling down her reddened cheeks. "Hush my darling," he'd soothed. "Daddy's got you, everything's alright now."

_This is for Johanna. _

Another and he sees red corkscrew curls. Dark eyes beseeching him to see reason. "Now Mr. T, surely one's enough for today."

_This is for Mrs. Lovett, you sick bastard. _

Coming out of his trance, drenched in the blood of his enemy, panting and wild-eyed, Sweeney observes the mutilated remains of Turpin's face. With detached calm, he watches the blood ooze from every crevice, pooling on the open pages of the book lying discarded on the floor, and on the lush carpet beneath it. The walls are splattered with red, every oil painting coated in a crimson film, every statuette bathed with the payment for a corrupt man's sins.

The sense of freedom is like nothing he has ever felt before - not even when he'd escaped the colony - as though the weight of fifteen years of suffering has been lifted from his shoulders. Observing Turpin carefully, Sweeney tries to memorize every macabre gash, the frozen look of horror. Lip curled back in a faint sneer, Mr. Todd wipes his razor on his bloodied shirt and moves to walk away when he remembers something. Swallowing his disdain, he steps close to Turpin and pulls back his jacket, reaching inside the pockets and feeling around.

Fingers closing around a soft leather coin purse, Mr. Todd pulls away from the filth decaying in the chair and opens it. The purse is stuffed with shillings and bank notes. Sweeney smirks, pocketing the money and thinking that perhaps Mrs. Lovett had taught him something through all that wasteful chatter. _Waste not, want not. _

* * *

A/N - Finally! This chapter was absolute murder to write. Pun intended. Haha EPIC thanks to Robynne, who is the best beta and friend a gal could ask for. Read her stuff, she's brilliant! DojoGhost is insanely talented as well, and I'm sure they'd both appreciate your lovely comments! And thanks to all of you for your wonderful reviews, I'm always ridiculously happy to get your feedback! Also, the title of this chapter was taken from the Pink Floyd song Dark Side of the Moon, I don't own it. Anyhow, let me know how you like the chapter!

Lilia-Rose - Yes, Nellie is becoming pretty protective of Johanna. I think it's her natural instinct to mother. Haha She's setting quite an example for Johanna, but whether that's good or bad has yet to be seen:D Toby, of course, is hopelessly clueless about ladies and their underwear. Poor kid. ANYhow, thanks so much for the review, I'm glad you're enjoying the story!


	10. Lunatics Have Taken Over The Asylum

The Shadow Proves The Sunshine

Nine days, four hours and twelve minutes is entirely too long to go without a stiff drink, especially in a place like Fogg's Asylum. Stretched out on her bench and bringing the gin bottle to her lips once again, Mrs. Lovett determines that life doesn't seem quite so hopeless with alcohol clouding her senses. During the days and nights spent in this little room, staring at odd markings carved into the stone walls and listening to miserable shrieks, Nellie has wished desperately for a drink more times than she could possibly count. Now, with cheap gin in her system, flooding her with a soothing warmth and numbing her various injuries, she feels like perhaps Mr. Todd really might rescue her, perhaps she won't rot away in here. Gin makes her terribly optimistic.

Emmy, Tilda and Claribel gather around her on the floor, each in various stages of relaxation. For the last half an hour, they have been passing the bottle between themselves, giggling and coming up with games to play. Eleanor had thought of a particular favorite - the disease game. While sneaking nips from the bottle, they've taken to betting their possessions instead of money, guessing which lunatic or guard has what disease, and how many diseases Mr. Taylor and his ilk have caught from the lunatics.

Lounging on her back as Nellie hands the bottle to Emmy, Tilda points randomly to a nearby patient and proclaims, "I bet my pearl brooch - the one Carl has probably given to his new wife by now - that she's got syphilis."

Nellie snorts. "Love, everyone in 'ere's got syphilis 'cept us. And you I'm not so sure about."

Tilda glares, but the look is softened somewhat when Emmy passes her the gin. "Such a comedian, Eleanor."

The baker shrugs and opens her mouth to reply when the girl next to her stirs from her uneasy sleep. Peering intently through the wall at Johanna, Nellie smiles as she straightens, yawning. "Bout time you woke up, Jo, dear. 'ow can you sleep in this place?"

Johanna offers her a timid smile. "Not well, I assure you." Bringing a hand to the small of her back and wincing, she sighs. "My back is quite unhappy with me just now."

Nellie beams. "I've got just the thing for that, love." Her movements pained and stiff, she slowly reaches over and snatches the bottle from Claribel's hands. " 'ave a drink."

Johanna's eyes widen when Nellie shoves the bottle through the wall and into her limp hands. "W-what? Oh, no ma'am, I don't - "

Tilda nearly chokes. "Girl's never had a drink before! Bloody hell, where were you living before this place?"

"The lap of luxury," Eleanor sighs, still trying to get Johanna to hold onto the bottle. "C'mon, dearie. You'll like it, I promise." She thinks briefly of Toby and his fondness for the drink, recalling nights when she would tiptoe into his room to find him clutching at a bottle and having to pry it from his hand.

Closing her fingers tentatively around the bottle, Johanna stares down at it as though it might bite her. "Where did you get this?"

"Oscar," Eleanor smirks. "I think 'e felt sorry for me."

Johanna lets out a faint giggle. "You _are _quite a sorry sight, Mrs. Lovett."

Nellie frowns, looking affronted. "Excuse me, Miss Barker, but I do believe you've forgotten your manners. We're only lowly madwomen, but what excuse 'ave you for such incivility, hmm?"

The girl looks ready to apologize when she looks up and notices the teasing grin on Mrs. Lovett's face. She shakes her head and smiles. "Too much time around you all, I suppose." She sighs, eyeing the bottle.

" 'ave I ever steered you wrong, love?" Eleanor asks, sensing the others growing restless for their turn with the bottle. It's been even longer since any of them have had a drink, and she pities the poor dears. "What's one lit'le sip gonna 'urt?"

Johanna shakes her head again, lips pursed as she slowly lifts the bottle up to eye level, examining it as closely as she can in the dark cell. "Judge Turpin kept only the finest wines and scotches in the house. He'd be appalled if he knew I was drinking at all, let alone cheap gin..." Johanna smiles, bringing the bottle to her lips and taking a timid drink.

Nellie watches expectantly as the girl grimaces, coughing and sputtering as she pulls the bottle away from her mouth. She laughs, "It's an acquired taste, dear." She reaches out for the gin but Johanna straightens, wiping her watery eyes and taking another sip, bigger this time.

"Oi," Tilda says, snapping her fingers. "We're all thirsty over here!"

Shooting her a look, Mrs. Lovett says, " 'old your 'orses, love. All good things come to those who can wait."

Tilda scoffs, replying tartly, "The only things that come to those who wait are the things left by those that got there first."

Nellie opens and closes her mouth several times before finally settling on an annoyed frown. It is the first time someone has thought of a comeback to her practical advice, and she just hopes Mr. Todd never hears the phrase - he'd never listen to her again.

Johanna hands Tilda the bottle, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and Eleanor only stares at her, pleased on some morbid level. The girl had been so damned sophisticated when Eleanor had met her, but now she has assaulted a man with a razor, drank gin and wiped her mouth with her hand. In such a short space of time, Nellie has managed to turn the poor girl's proper upbringing on its head. She might have felt guilty for it, if Johanna didn't seem a measure happier now. More like a normal young girl and less like a witless flower for society to admire from afar.

Quite without warning, the door to the redhead room creaks open and the warden walks in, flanked by Oscar and Harlan. Gasping quietly, Nellie wrenches the bottle of gin from Emmy and tosses it under the bench as best as she can, unable to bend down completely in her current state of aches and pains. The bottle hits the wall behind the bench with a clank and Tilda hurriedly attempts to cover it with straw, but Nellie is all too aware of Mr. Fogg's eyes following their frenzied movements.

He ignores them for the moment, pursing his thin lips and moving to the girl closest to him. Pulling a bag of toffees out of his coat pocket, he bends down to her level and holds out a candy, offering it to her with an affected smile. "You've been a good girl, child. Take it."

Mrs. Lovett almost rolls her eyes. Fogg makes his rounds every couple of days, administering candy to the girls who have managed to behave themselves admirably - whether that meant not throwing a fit, not pulling out all her hair, or scratching at the walls, not lashing out at the doctor or irritating the guards. So far, the baker hasn't managed to obtain a sweet for herself.

The young redhead sniffles, reaching out a shaking hand for the toffee. "Another?" She asks quietly. "For the baby?"

Eleanor snorts softly to the others. "She's quite convinced that one of the gentleman 'as impregnated her - with a baby giraffe, no less - and _I'm_ mad?"

Claribel only smiles. "Madness comes in all shapes and sizes, Eleanor. Even tiny ones like you."

Going around the room, the warden takes his time handing out toffees or explaining condescendingly to girls that they haven't behaved well enough to have candy today. Oscar and Harlan stand behind him, following in his footsteps and keeping the lunatics away when they wander too close. Fogg acts as though he isn't paying Nellie and her friends any mind, but she sees his gaze flitting in their direction every so often, his eyes drifting down to the space under the bench, lingering a bit too long for her liking. The leech still has Mr. Todd's razor, another cause for her constant anxiety. How will Mr. Todd ever trust her again, if he finds out she lost his razor to that abominable man?

When Fogg finally reaches the corner where Nellie lounges on her bench, Tilda, Claribel and Emmy scamper backward, leaning against the opposite wall. Fogg looks down his nose at her with a frown, ignoring the others. Trying not to show the way her whole body still aches from her beating just days ago, Eleanor arranges her facial expression into one of open defiance. She grows tired of his rat face and the way he flaunts his superiority over her. If not for the fact that Oscar would surely lose his job if she did so, Eleanor might have just waved the bottle of gin in front of his face and dared him to punish her.

Instead, she watches coolly as he toys with the candy in his open palm, mouth twisted in an odd sort of way that doesn't suit him at all. "Well, my dear, you've been wonderfully quiet for the past two days. I cannot help but wonder if it has something to do with your last punishment. Learning the error of your ways, are you?" He smiles, twisting off the wrapping of a toffee and holding it out to her.

Eleanor eyes him warily, arms crossed stubbornly over her chest. She isn't quite ready to believe that Fogg would offer her anything, no matter how quiet she has been lately.

His face suddenly morphes into one of faux surprise. "Oh, wait." He pulls away the candy he's dangling in front of her face, pocketing it instead. "What's this?" He asks with a tone that says he already knows, has known since he'd stepped foot into the room and heard it hit the wall. Bending down, he peers beneath the bench and brushes away the straw to reveal a nearly empty bottle of gin. Nellie breathes in sharply through her nose, stifling a rather obscene string of curses. Her dark eyes fly to Oscar, who looks just as stricken.

The warden straightens, holding out the offending object. Eyes ablaze with his fury, Fogg stares at Eleanor and quietly seethes, "Where did you get this?"

She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. "The gin fairy, love, just like anyone else."

This only enrages him further and he tosses the bottle at her head with a roar. Nellie manages to duck just in time, covering her head with her hands. The glass shatters against the stone wall, little shards raining down on her and littering the floor. The lunatics begin to wail to themselves, rocking back and forth and willing themselves into their own little worlds where everything makes sense.

The warden whirls around to face his guards, zeroing in on Oscar, who looks suspiciously anxious, his handsome face pale and drawn. "Either of you have any idea where she got it?" When both guards remain silent, Harlan merely shrugging, Mr. Fogg shouts, "_Someone_ gave her the damn gin! Confess now or you both - "

"I stole it," Nellie raises her voice to be heard over his, heart careening dangerously against her chest. "When they came in with breakfast yesterday, I was 'ungry and you ordered them not to feed me. So when Oscar got close enough, I slipped the gin out o' 'is pocket when 'e wasn't lookin'."

The rage in Mr. Fogg's gaze abates only momentarily at her confession. He turns his glare on Oscar and steps closer, gripping him by the front of his shirt. The sight is almost comical, a scrawny man like the warden trying to threaten someone as strong and intimidating as Oscar. The guard grimaces beneath Fogg's gaze, in any case. "You imbecile!" He shrieks, giving him a shove that doesn't budge Oscar an inch. "What if she'd decided to be a little more ambitious and took the keys instead?! What then?"

With a quick glance in Nellie's direction, taking in her pleading eyes, Oscar turns his gaze to the floor and mumbles, "Sorry, Mr. Fogg. I'll be more careful next time."

Letting out a long, agitated breath, the warden lets go of Oscar's shirt and steps back, obviously trying to calm himself. "No, I'm afraid that isn't enough. You have been exceedingly irresponsible, Oscar." He sighs again, shaking his head. "You are too good at your job for me to fire you, even though it's what you deserve...You leave me no choice but to send you home for the week without pay. Perhaps the inability to afford food or rent will teach you to be more careful around the patients."

Oscar looks stranded somewhere between crest-fallen and relieved, the two emotions warring together on his face for a long moment before he manages a slight nod. "Yes, sir, Mr. Fogg."

The warden turns slowly on his heel to face Nellie, his face a mask of calm. "I've had you whipped," he says quietly. "I've had you beaten, starved and drugged. Nothing seems to break you, Eleanor Lovett. So I think, this time, I will be a little more..._forceful_."

Nellie braces herself, mentally preparing her mind and body for the onslaught of punishments, whatever they may be this time. She can't imagine feeling any worse than she does, with her whole body throbbing and her skin crawling from the dirt and the insects and the lunacy all around her. Her situation cannot possibly be any worse, and it's this thought that enables her to look the warden straight in the eye and speak without the slightest tremble in her voice. "Do your best, love."

Mr. Fogg smiles. "Harlan, come here. I have a job for you." The hulking guard stomps forward, looming over the much smaller man. As Mr. Fogg mutters something unintelligible to Harlan, Oscar wavers near the door apprehensively. "I don't think you'll be causing anymore mischief after this particular punishment, my dear girl."

Harlan steps forward and Eleanor watches his approach with a disinterest that surprises even her - she supposes the gin has made her more bold. She expects him to haul her over his shoulder and carry her down to the basement, where her other punishments have taken place. Instead, he grabs her by the shoulder and shoves her to the ground. She lands on her stomach with a heavy thud and sputters a cough into the stones, pain wracking her body. Her rib will never heal if it continues to be abused this way.

She senses Harlan hovering over her and instinctively uses her hands to turn herself over, wincing when her palms dig into the glass from the gin bottle littering the floor. She lands on her back with a pained sigh, hands stinging and ribs inflamed. Harlan scowls down at her, not a hint of pity in his eyes. He lingers near her feet and she wonders why, unease fluttering in her stomach. His intention suddenly becomes horrifyingly clear when he raises his own large, booted foot.

She screams.

--

Before, when she'd thought her torment couldn't possibly get any worse, she had failed to take into account that none of her bones had been broken. Harlan, with his mammoth sized foot, had taken care of that.

Lying on the floor amidst the smashed remnants of the gin bottle, staring blearily up at the ceiling, Eleanor doesn't even try to move. Her foot feels as if Harlan has not only broken it but shattered every bone with a sickening crunch. It had been painful, more painful than any of the other punishments thus far but after that initial scream of protest when she realized what he was about to do, she'd done nothing but bite her tongue until it bled to keep from crying out.

Satisfied that she would not be causing any more trouble for a while, the warden had left with Harlan and Oscar in tow. Tilda and Claribel sit on either side of her, shooing away rats while Emmy sits on the bench and tries to soothe Johanna, who has become a bit overwrought. The girl had only moments ago begun to push at the crumbling brick between them in a desperate attempt to make the hole in the wall big enough for her to slip through, hysterically trying to reach the baker. Still grimacing from the pain, Nellie had managed to make Johanna see sense - it wouldn't do her any good to be on the other side of the wall, and it would only make Mr. Fogg more angry than he already is.

Once Emmy has calmed Johanna down considerably, Eleanor focuses on calming her labored breathing. It is now more apparent to her than ever that she will die in this place of dust and shadows, whether that will be at the hand of the warden because of her own foolishness or by one of the many gentlemen callers parading about the asylum is yet to be seen. As she watches a rather large bug make its treacherous journey across the straw covered floor, Eleanor makes a silent deal with herself. From now on, she will try her best to remain invisible under the warden's eye. She will stay out of trouble, remain quiet and only put up a fuss when absolutely necessary. Perhaps if she remains complacent, the asylum will slowly strip away her sanity, bit by bit, and then it won't be so terrible to be prisoner here.

If she becomes one of the lunatics, since society thinks she is one anyway, then maybe she'll lose her mind and forget the reasons she has to stay sane, to be rescued. She'll eventually forget about Mr. Todd and Toby, and any hopes she might have for the future. She'll forget about Mr. Todd's hand on her waist while they waltzed, or hunting spiders with her son. Maybe losing her sanity will make it all hurt just a little less.

Sleep is just moments away when she hears footsteps from down the hall once again, and she inwardly groans, wondering if they've come back to kick her while she's down. Her suspicions are proved correct when the door opens and three tall shadows fall over the redhead room. Lifting her head marginally, Eleanor squints against the light and makes out the figures of Mr. Fogg, Harlan and a tall, slender man in a top hat. She can't see their faces, but the top hat can only be Mr. Taylor's.

The hopelessness of her situation almost makes her want to cry. There is no way she'll be able to fight off Taylor with a broken foot and her whole body as beaten as it is. She has no weapon, no means of defending herself. There is truly no chance of rescue this time.

The man in the doorway points in her direction and says, "Her." The voice sounds oddly familiar, but in her distress, Nellie can't seem to place it. It doesn't sound like Mr. Taylor, the voice too gruff and deep to belong to that upperclass twit.

Harlan steps past them all and lopes over to Nellie's battered form on the floor, lifting her over his shoulder carelessly. She doesn't try to fight him off like she had the last time, too tired to be beaten for a hopeless cause. Closing her eyes so she doesn't have to see Johanna's stricken face as Harlan carries her from the room, Eleanor concentrates instead on keeping her emotions in check. Whoever this bloke is, she will not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry through this horrific ordeal.

Through the long walk down the corridor, the gentleman with the top hat and Mr. Fogg walk directly behind her but she doesn't open her eyes to look at them. In all truth, she would rather not see the face of her violator. She only knows that it can't be Mr. Taylor because she can't hear the tap of his silly cane, or the idle pleasantries that he usually exchanges with the warden.

When they reach the same barren room that they'd used when Mr. Taylor had chosen her, Harlan unlocks the door and it creaks noisily open. Stepping into the room, he drops Eleanor on the straw bed in the corner, ignoring her agonized cry.

She watches Harlan leave the room and spots the gentleman with the top hat standing in the doorway, his back to her as the warden says, "Enjoy your time with her, sir. She's quite a feisty one, so if you have any trouble, call out for us and Harlan will chain her up." The man only nods in response and losing interest, Nellie leans her head back against the straw and curls around herself, shutting her eyes tightly.

The door closes behind the warden and the room is silent except for the methodical, deliberate footfalls of the gentleman with the top hat as he slowly walks toward her. He stops just in front of her and though she can sense his eyes on her, Eleanor doesn't dare open her own. She doesn't want to see his face in her nightmares. _Just a few minutes and it will all be over..._

He speaks, and the sound of his voice is grave and melancholic - a voice that makes her heart skip a beat. She wonders if she has truly gone mad now, hearing Mr. Todd's voice when strangers speak. "Never expected you to be the type to simply lie there."

Her breath quickens and her pulse pounds in her ears as her eyes slowly flutter open to stare at the ground and the shoes in front of her. Just as she suspected. Those aren't Mr. Todd's old, worn boots. They're gentleman's shoes, black, shiny and probably leather. She stares at them, transfixed and refusing to look any higher.

The man lets out a soft, agitated sigh. "Mrs. Lovett."

Tears blur her vision then and she lets out a choked laugh as her gaze flies up to meet the dark eyes she sees almost every night in her dreams. "M-Mr. Todd?" He tilts his head in acknowledgment and she puts a hand to her mouth, shocked. Through her tears, she notices that he's wearing a suit and there's stubble on his cheek but it hardly matters because he's _here_. He hasn't forgotten about her, he hasn't left her here to rot in her own insanity. He's standing right in front of her and her eyes almost hurt just looking at him. She hadn't realized just how much she missed him until then, under his expressionless gaze.

Mr. Todd, realizing that she isn't quite in the right frame of mind to deal with his sudden presence, sighs quietly and takes off his hat, tossing it aside to reveal a head of wild hair, free of any white streak. Holding out a hand to her, he easily lifts her to her feet and Eleanor tries to hide her grimace of pain. Attempting to put all of her weight on her left foot, she reaches out unsteadily to hold onto the wall.

"Thought you weren't comin' after me, love," she says honestly, tilting her head up to look at him.

He doesn't respond but he still hasn't let go of her other hand, and he's looking at her as though he's never seen her before in his life. It's a look she's seen many times before, but never directed at her - a focused, wide-eyed gaze that makes her think he isn't seeing the rest of the world right then, that his own universe has narrowed to only her. His creased brow and wild stare is enough to make her shift uncomfortably. The lighting in the asylum is much too dim for him to make out any of the wounds inflicted on her, she knows he can't see the blood on her skirts or the cuts and bruising running up and down her arms, so she wonders briefly what he's staring at. He takes a step closer and she tries to back away from him uncertainly, but he keeps a tight grip on her arm, holding her firmly in place.

"Mr. T," she begins, stammering despite herself. "W-what are you - "

She doesn't get to finish what she was going to say, but perhaps that's for the best because the moment he pulls her roughly into him, the words leave her head anyway. For a moment, when his lips brush harshly against hers, she is too stunned to respond. Her eyes flutter shut instinctively, but she stays frozen and cannot bring herself to move. She doesn't even have the stamina to question _why_ he would do such a thing, too distracted by the weight of his body and the warmth of his chest pressed to hers. The heady scent of blood and aftershave invades her senses. His hands on her waist grip so tightly that it almost hurts, and his lips - much softer than she had imagined - are crushing hers in a bruising, desperate kiss. Nellie struggles to get a hold of herself; she has wanted this for too long to let it pass without taking advantage of it.

Despite how weak she is, despite the way his rough kiss has reopened the cut at the corner of mouth and the fact that it takes every ounce of strength she has left not to collapse to the floor in a heap before him, she kisses him back. Wrapping her arms around his neck to support herself, Mrs. Lovett leans up on the tiptoes of her unbroken foot and returns Sweeney Todd's affection with every bit of energy she still possesses.

When he pulls away, breathing heavily and leaning his forehead against hers, Eleanor sighs contentedly, too blissful to even feel the pain anymore as she lays a hand to his cheek. She likes it, the feel of his coarse stubble beneath her hand. She has always preferred a clean-shaven man, but something about this scruffy look suits the demon barber.

It takes Mr. Todd a moment to gather his wits about him, but when he does, he clears his throat awkwardly and looks her square in the eye. "Did," he stops abruptly, licking his lips before beginning again. "Did anyone touch - "

"No," Nellie answers softly, giving him a thin, reassuring smile. His behavior baffles her, she has never quite seen him like this, but she still feels too lightheaded from his kiss to question it. "A blighter certainly tried but 'e didn't 'ave a chance, love."

She can't be sure, but she could swear she hears him let out a quiet sigh of relief before he lets go of her and backs away, looking more like the formidable barber she is familiar with. It's comforting somehow, to know that some things will never change. However, being that his body against hers was the only thing holding Eleanor up, she crumples to the ground at his feet the moment he moves away from her.

All of her energy has been drained by their brief encounter, and her poor condition is catching up with her. The last thing she sees before unconsciousness takes her is Mr. Todd leaning over her, frowning in concern.

--

Life isn't fair. Tobias Ragg had learned this simple lesson many years ago but he has never felt it more acutely than right this second. He wants nothing more than to be inside Fogg's Asylum, helping Mr. Todd and Anthony rescue Mrs. Lovett. He wants to watch whatever Mr. Todd decides to do to those awful guards, he wants to hug his mum and promise her he'll never let anything bad happen to her ever again.

Instead, he stands outside on the cobbled street, leaning against the side of the carriage and glaring ahead at the large double doors of the madhouse. He'd begged Mr. Todd to let him help, but the barber had glared at him and told him he'd only get in the way. He'd ordered Toby to find a carriage and buy it, no matter how much money it took. Now, his job done, Toby has nothing left to do but wait. Patience doesn't come easily to twelve year old boys and he finds himself tapping his foot uneasily as the minutes tick by.

Anthony is supposed to trap the warden in his office, using whatever means possible, so that Mr. Todd can find Mrs. Lovett and Johanna without anyone getting in his way. As time passes, however, Toby becomes increasingly uncertain as to whether Anthony can handle such a task. The sailor doesn't strike Toby as a violent sort of man and he wonders if Anthony really has it in him to hurt anyone. With horror, Toby thinks back on Anthony's reaction to Bloke - he'd shrieked like a girl and jumped onto a table. Over a spider. And Mr. Todd trusts him to win if it comes to blows with the warden?

Toby scoffs and heads for the asylum doors, leaving the carriage unattended on the side of the street. Normally, it wouldn't bother Toby one way or the other what Anthony could or couldn't do, but Mrs. Lovett's life depends on his performance, and he isn't about to just sit back and hope the sailor knows what he's doing.

The warden's office is visible from just inside the asylum doors, and Toby stands completely still, listening intently. There are no guards in sight and the only thing he hears over the screaming of the lunatics is the muffled voices of Anthony and Mr. Fogg. Glancing around hurriedly, Toby finds a guard's baton, lying abandoned on a long, low table on the other side of the room. He scurries to it silently and scoops it up, closing his fist tightly around it as he creeps closer to the open door of the warden's office.

Standing in the doorway is Anthony, aiming his pistol toward Mr. Fogg with a shaking hand. "I must ask you to stay where you are, sir. Don't take another step or it'll be your life."

Mr. Fogg laughs. "You think you frighten me, boy? You may have a weapon, but firing it is another matter entirely. Some men can kill without a thought, like second nature. But you...you have the air of a man who would spend the rest of his life feeling guilty for what he's done. Nightmares, regret, eternal damnation." He scoffs. "Can you handle a lifetime of hating yourself for one moment of power, boy? I don't think you can."

Toby's mouth drops open when he hears Anthony's pistol clatter loudly to the floor. He silently fumes, grateful that he'd decided the sailor couldn't be trusted with such an important job.

"Just as I expected," Mr. Fogg says, sounding pleased. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to fetch my guards to lock your weak carcass away."

Toby tenses when he hears the sound of Mr. Fogg's footsteps heading for the door. When the man steps around a frozen Anthony, Toby pipes up, "Oi!" He lashes out with his pilfered club, gripping it like a bludgeon. It connects solidly with the warden's skull and the man crumples to the ground in a boneless heap. Toby peers around the doorway to fix Anthony with a scowl. "Next time, _you're_ gettin' the carriage."

The sailor offers him a grateful smile. "Let's hope there won't be a next time." Anthony frowns, watching Toby bend down to pick up the pistol. "How did you know I would need help?"

Toby shrugs. "Just knew you didn't 'ave it in you. Bit of a ponce, really."

Anthony looks indignant, but his expression soon turns into one of shock when Toby points the pistol at Mr. Fogg without hesitation. "We can't kill him," he says, sounding pained. "No matter what he's done, it doesn't seem right."

Sighing, Toby grumbles something along the lines of '_ponce, alright_' under his breathe. Louder, he says, "Well, what should we do with 'im then?"

--

Mrs. Lovett is in far worse condition than he'd originally thought. Peering closely at her as she lies prostrate on the floor, Sweeney can clearly see the dirt and blood smeared across her cheeks, her fiery curls knotted and forming a tangled halo around her head. The asylum is nothing but shadows and he cannot tell anything further for the time being, but women as strong as Mrs. Lovett obviously do not pass out for no reason at all.

He frowns down at her, patting gently at her cheek in an effort to rouse her. Now is hardly the time for losing consciousness and he mentally curses the normally practical baker for her timing. "Mrs. Lovett," he says as loudly as he dares. "Mrs. Lovett, wake up this instant."

She doesn't move and he sighs, shifting his position to rest a hand against her side and try another tactic. However, the minute he presses his hand to her side, Mrs. Lovett's eyes fly open and she shrieks painfully, startling him enough to send him jumping back.

He watches her clutch at her side and says resentfully, "What the bloody hell is the matter with you?" Still gasping, Mrs. Lovett chokes out something about a broken rib and his mouth nearly drops open. He growls, "Stupid woman! Why didn't you _say _something?"

Mrs. Lovett smiles weakly. "My mouth was a lit'le occupied, dearie."

Mr. Todd scowls at her, still not sure what on earth had possessed him to kiss her like that - he only knows the relief he'd felt at seeing her for the first time in days, finally knowing that she was safe and in one piece. It isn't the time to dwell on his rash actions, and he rises to his feet, holding out a hand to help Mrs. Lovett do the same. The plan needs to be executed now, they only have a short amount of time before their respective ships leave the harbor without them. When Mrs. Lovett makes no move to take his hand, he says, "We're going to need to find Johanna and get the bloody hell out of here within half an hour. Are you coming or have you decided this atmosphere suits you, Mrs. Lovett?"

She stares up at him pitifully, her small frame looking terribly fragile on the stone floor. "I can't walk, love," she says softly. "You're goin' to 'ave to go without me."

Mr. Todd raises his eyebrows; the idea of leaving her is so ridiculous that he almost laughs. "Why?"

"Guard broke my foot less than an hour ago," she says conversationally, as though the two of them are merely discussing pie crusts.

His breath stops short, the tightness in his chest is overwhelming but he doesn't trust himself to breathe again without releasing some sort of animalistic growl. The rage nearly clouds his eyes and he finds his hand instinctively reaching for the razor concealed within his expensive coat pocket. Whoever has laid a hand on her will suffer beneath his blade, if it's the last thing he ever does. For now, Mrs. Lovett's injury presents a problem. He tosses the blade to her and she catches it, looking somewhat guilty.

"I don't 'ave your other one," she says quietly and winces, apparently expecting him to lash out at her. "The warden confiscated it. I'm sorry, Mr. T, I know 'ow much they mean to you. I promise I'll - "

"Quiet, Mrs. Lovett," he snaps, and he's surprised to find that he doesn't really care what happened to his other razor. The loss of it seems so inconsequential compared to everything else right now. The razors have served their true purpose, and that's what really matters to him, anyway. Walking toward the petite baker lying on the floor, Mr. Todd bends down and scoops her up into his arms. She clings tightly to him, her face against his neck. Mrs. Lovett is worryingly light, as though he has just lifted up a malnourished child instead of a grown woman. She winces in discomfort, as gentle as he tries to be, and he wonders with unease what injuries he has yet to discover.

"Door's locked," she says unhelpfully. " 'ow are we goin' to get out?"

Taking the razor from Mrs. Lovett's grasp as they near the door, Mr. Todd calls out loudly, "Damn it, woman, stay still! Guards!"

Almost immediately they hear a shuffle outside and Harlan grumbling, "Break 'er other foot, that's what I'll do." Sweeney leans against the wall, listening as the guard slides the key into the lock and swings the door open. "Alright, what's the - " He stops when he sees Sweeney holding Mrs. Lovett, reclining casually against the wall and watching him expectantly. "What the bloody hell is this?"

Sweeney pushes away from the wall, wielding his open razor as he steps forward. Startled, Harlan stumbles back, tripping on his own feet and catching himself against the wall. Straightening hurriedly, he fumbles for the weighted baton hanging at his side but Mr. Todd doesn't give him a chance to defend himself. Lashing out with practiced ease, he slits Harlan's throat open, spraying himself and Mrs. Lovett in the coppery color of his blood.

Mrs. Lovett closes her eyes, burying her face in Sweeney's shoulder and mumbling with amusement, "That one broke my foot," she pauses, frowning. "And tried to strangle me. Don't think 'e liked me much, Mr. T."

He ignores her prattle for the time being, morbidly happy to discover that first blood belongs to Mrs. Lovett's abuser but wishing he'd had time to be more _thorough_. Stooping down to fish through the guard's pockets, he finds the keys and straightens, doing his best to balance the woman in his arms. Stepping over Harlan's slumped body, Sweeney slips silently into the corridor and glances around.

"Where's Johanna?" He asks, jostling Mrs. Lovett whenever it looks like she's about to fall asleep against him. There will be plenty of time for her to rest, he'll make sure of it, but they can't afford to stop now.

She points limply in the right direction and he stalks off down the hallway. Her breathing sounds unusually shallow to his ears, and he glances down at her to find her staring fixedly at a spot of blood on his shirt, unblinking. Part of him looks forward to being in the sunlight and assessing the damage inflicted upon her by these savages, but another part of him feels ill at the thought of there being anything else wrong with the small woman. She feels entirely too delicate, too breakable in his arms.

Mrs. Lovett suddenly tenses in his grasp, peering over his shoulder. She whispers into his ear, "Took my 'airpin, 'e did."

Mr. Todd whirls around to find another guard charging at him, club drawn. "Stealing?" He sneers quietly, tensing as he waits for the man to reach him. Sweeney had underestimated the difficulty of carrying Mrs. Lovett and trying to slit a man's throat at the same time, and he struggles to keep from dropping the tiny baker as the guard comes upon him, club poised to strike.

His first concern is keeping Mrs. Lovett from any more harm, so when the guard swings his club, Sweeney twists wildly to the side to shield her from the blow. The club collides squarely with his shoulder and Sweeney bites back a string of curses, reminded of the scuffle with a rolling pin that had gotten them all into this mess. Mrs. Lovett latches tightly onto his neck, trying her best to hold her own weight while Sweeney disposes of the guard.

Clutching Mrs. Lovett to him with one hand, Sweeney whirls around again with a growl of annoyance, raising his blade to take a swipe of his own. The guard blocks the intended stab with his club and moves to take another swing but Mr. Todd acts quickly, slashing the guard's wrist open. The guard gasps, dropping the club to instinctively clutch at his wound.

He realizes his mistake too late and as he fumbles for his weapon, Sweeney slices open the guard's throat, unfazed as the man's neck spurts blood onto the barber's sleeve and the floor beneath them. The guard collapses onto the stones, his face frozen in wide-eyed shock.

Mrs. Lovett, seemingly half-awake, waves cheerfully at the man as they step over him. "Goodbye, Ernest, love."

The long, winding corridor finally leads them back to the rooms containing the female lunatics, and Sweeney scans the long row of doors until he finds the one containing yellow-haired patients. As Mrs. Lovett calls out feebly for Johanna, Mr. Todd settles her against the wall, hoping she can hold herself up long enough for him to unlock the door and usher Johanna out.

Johanna's angelic face appears at the door and her eyes light up when she spots Sweeney standing outside the room with Mrs. Lovett. "Oh, Mr. Todd! I knew you'd come!" She even sounds like Lucy, her voice as soft and light at he remembers; Lucy hardly ever raised her voice above a gentle whisper. The memory of her doesn't bring with it the pain it usually does, and he supposes he owes a large part of that to the redhead slumped against the wall behind him.

Unlocking the door with the keys he'd stolen from Harlan's corpse, Sweeney opens the door just enough to let Johanna slip out before slamming it shut again. He turns to pick up Mrs. Lovett only to find Johanna suddenly embracing him, winding her slender arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest. "Thank you, Mr. Todd," she says, hugging him tightly and not seeming to mind at all that he's covered in blood.

He cannot bring himself to move or even blink, the reality of the situation too much for his mind to take in. For the longest time, he thought he'd never see his baby girl again, and now here she is in his arms, whispering her gratitude, her yellow hair brushing his cheek.

Just as suddenly, Johanna is gone, turning her attention to Mrs. Lovett. Having lost her balance momentarily, Mrs. Lovett is seconds away from hitting the floor when Johanna rushes to her side, holding her up. "I'm sorry Mrs. Lovett," Johanna whimpers, looking close to tears. "I got you into such trouble with the warden, I never should have - "

"Wasn't your fault, Jo dear," Mrs. Lovett murmurs tiredly as Sweeney steps closer to gather her into his arms again. "I asked for most of it." She swats Mr. Todd's arm away when he moves to pick her up, smiling weakly at his befuddled look and gesturing to the door in front of them. "Let them out."

He stares but doesn't move.

Mrs. Lovett sighs. "I 'ave friends in there, silly thing. Unlock the door and let them out."

"We don't have time for this, Mrs. Lovett," he snaps, unable to believe her ability to be selfless even now. "I didn't sneak into the damn asylum to rescue your friends."

Mrs. Lovett glares at him, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the wall, slowly and awkwardly sinking down to the floor. "Then you'll 'ave to leave without me."

Mr. Todd snarls in return. "The hell I will." He bends down to scoop her up anyway, prepared to carry her out kicking and screaming, but a small voice stops him.

"Wait," Johanna says timidly, putting a small hand on his arm. "Mrs. Lovett may be onto something, Mr. Todd."

Sweeney turns to look at her, staring at his daughter along with Mrs. Lovett, both of them interested in whatever she has to say in favor of the baker's latest frivolous notion. Johanna smiles, and the look is one Mr. Todd has seen on the face of Mrs. Lovett countless times before, when she has a particularly brilliant idea and can hardly contain herself because of it. He wonders fondly if Mrs. Lovett has passed on any other traits to the girl in their brief time together.

"It would be the ideal time to escape, in the chaos of hundreds of escaped lunatics, don't you think so? There would be so many people flooding the streets - it would be impossible for the police to spot us." She bites her lip, looking hopeful. "What do you think?"

Sweeney almost smiles at her.

--

Emmy, Tilda and Claribel, as they'd introduced themselves to him, had taken the keys and set to the task of freeing every lunatic in the asylum. The corridors are swimming with female asylum patients, some of them trudging along like zombies, bewildered and confused at this new atmosphere. Others are running for the doors, screaming and laughing. The sight of so much insanity being allowed to go free, to roam the London streets is enough to make even Sweeney Todd shudder.

In the midst of this chaos, on his way out the door to the carriage, carrying a trembling Mrs. Lovett in his arms and Johanna clinging to his elbow, Sweeney nearly runs directly into Anthony and Toby in a particularly crowded hallway.

Lunatics running rampant around them, Anthony and Toby carry an unconscious Mr. Fogg by his arms and legs. Anthony smiles at Johanna, looking very much like he wants to embrace her but too busy holding up Mr. Fogg to move. Toby's eyes light up when he sees Mrs. Lovett and he nearly drops the warden. "Mum!"

Mrs. Lovett gives a start at the sudden shout, turning in Sweeney's arms to see the boy grinning at her. "Toby, love," she smiles widely. "Oh, let me look at you." She reaches out for him, ruffling his hair with a shaking hand. "Grown at least a foot, you 'ave! And twice as 'andsome."

Toby blushes and Mr. Todd rolls his eyes. "What are you doing in here, boy? I told you to get a carriage!"

"I did," Toby draws himself up proudly, chin tilted. "It's outside."

Sweeney eyes the prone form of the asylum warden with disdain. "What are you doing with him?"

Frowning in disapproval, Toby says, "Anthony doesn't want to kill 'im, so we're lockin' 'im up with the men instead."

Mr. Todd raises his eyebrows, impressed. "You're locking him up with the lunatics?"

Johanna's eyes darken as they stray to Mrs. Lovett's small, beaten form. "It's better than he deserves, the sod."

Eyes narrowing, Sweeney glances down at Mrs. Lovett and she has the good grace to shrink beneath his glare. He can't bring himself to glower at her for long, she's far too weak and he's afraid a mere look could break her. There will be time to chastise her for corrupting his little girl with lower class language later, when he isn't filled with uncharacteristic pity for the woman.

"Your razor," Mrs. Lovett waves a hand toward Mr. Fogg, apparently hoping to distract him from his annoyance with her. "Probably in 'is coat pocket, love."

The razor hardly matters to him anymore, but Sweeney gestures to Johanna and she gives him an understanding smile, stepping forward to timidly fish through the warden's pockets. Within seconds, she plucks out a glimmering silver item and holds it up for his inspection. "I'll hold onto it for you," she says, eyeing his tight grip on the baker.

Sweeney nods toward Toby and Anthony and they continue on their way, pushing and shoving their way through the steady stream of lunatics. Mr. Todd turns his back on them, trusting Johanna to follow him as he stalks toward the door, joining the flood of patients all struggling to get through the crowded doorway. The streets are flooded with lunatics and horrified Londoners, but Sweeney manages to spot their carriage on the other side of the street.

He glances down at Mrs. Lovett to determine whether she's still conscious and almost stops in his tracks in the middle of the lane, his legs suddenly unsteady. Bringing her out into the sunlight, he can clearly see the damage done by the demons in charge of Fogg's, see the cruelty inflicted on the pie maker's fragile body. Her dress is ragged and spattered with blood, the corner of her mouth and the palms of her hands are bleeding, the bruises around her neck have faded and yellowed, her arms are covered with bruises and cuts; he dreads finding out what other hidden injuries she might have.

Noticing his horrified scrutiny, Mrs. Lovett regards him through hooded eyes, her dark gaze meeting his own. She smirks but it doesn't quite reach her eyes, her fingers clutching at his coat. "Couldn't keep their 'ands off me in there, Mr. T."

Johanna grabs him by the elbow, forcing him away from the middle of the street and to the carriage waiting for them. She opens the door for them, ushering him inside, and Sweeney can see the fear in her eyes over the baker's condition, the same fear he's trying so desperately to hide.

Collapsing onto the cushioned seat in the coach, Sweeney settles Mrs. Lovett more comfortably in his arms as Johanna climbs in after them, shutting the door to the frenzied panic in the streets. Mrs. Lovett lets out a soft sigh, one hand splayed over her ribs protectively.

"Mr. T?" She asks sleepily.

He grunts in acknowledgment, still silently assessing her condition and hoping their ship is equipped for treating her.

"I know you don't care for 'im," she says, and her voice sounds oddly slurred to his ears. He can only guess that she's struggling to remain conscious. "But I need you to look after Toby for me. I-I couldn't bear it if 'e want back to the workhouse."

His stomach churns unpleasantly, and he feels Johanna's frightened gaze on them both. "Stop it, Mrs. Lovett. You're delirious."

She grips his shirt in her fists tightly, looking up at him with wide, pleading brown eyes. "Promise me, Mr. T. Please."

"Fine," he snaps, willing to say anything if it will make her stop talking like this, make her stop looking at him with that intensity. "But only because you're being ridiculous. You're not going to die, you insipid woman."

Mrs. Lovett looks indignant, as though willing to die merely to prove him wrong. " 'ow do _you _know?"

"Because you're not allowed to," he growls irritably. "I forbid it."

Brow furrowed, Mrs. Lovett stares up at him for a moment. In her fevered state, these vehement words seem to soothe her, and she nods slowly. "Alright Mr. T," she mumbles tiredly, her head falling back to his shoulder.

Sweeney sighs when he feels her go nearly limp in his arms, relieved that the baker has finally tired herself out. He glances up at Johanna, whether to offer reassurance or just to look at her once more, he isn't sure. Mr. Todd finds his daughter staring at a spot on Mrs. Lovett's back, just above the neckline of her dress. He frowns, following her gaze and seeing white linen peeking out from the back of Mrs. Lovett's dress. Reaching out a tentative hand, Mr. Todd touches his fingers lightly to the strip of cloth, scowling.

"Whip marks," Johanna explains quietly, turning her attention to his questioning look. "The warden did it when she stole food for me."

_Bloody hell. _

His eyes dart back to Mrs. Lovett, his breath coming hard and fast. She had risked herself to care for his daughter and had been punished for it. The very idea that she would do something so foolish makes him want to strangle her himself, and yet, he admires her for it all the same. Just barely pulling back the linen, he sees the whip marks beginning to heal, angry red lines. The urge to jump out of the carriage, fight the maddened, rabid crowds and find the blasted warden, to inflict the worst of torments on him, is almost too strong to resist.

Johanna brings him back to himself, her sweet voice filling his ears. "I don't know if I would have survived without her, Mr. Todd. I'm forever indebted to her, and to you." She smiles shyly, tucking yellow hair behind her ears.

Looking at her, _really _looking at her, Sweeney realizes with a sudden jolt that she knows. Mrs. Lovett has spilled his secrets. He isn't sure how, but he knows that when Johanna looks at him, when she says 'Mr. Todd', she really means '_father_'. Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, he rasps, "It was our pleasure, Johanna, I'm sure."

Johanna beams at him, looking like she has something else to say, but the sound of Toby's young voice over the mass chaos outside the carriage causes them both to whirl around, facing the carriage door as it flies open and Toby clambers inside.

"Go!" The boy shouts, and with Anthony at the reigns, the coach begins moving slowly through the congested streets. Toby slumps into his seat next to Johanna, grinning even as he gasps for breath, chest heaving. "Now _that_ was an escape, eh, Mr. T?" He asks though his huffing and puffing. His eyes are on Mrs. Lovett's figure, huddled on the barber's lap, and Sweeney recognizes the look on his face for what it is - sheer triumph. "We did it, though. We got 'er back, just like you said."

Mr. Todd looks down at her, his scowl softening somewhat as he watches the baker breathe steadily into his waistcoat. He nods once. "That we did."

* * *

A/N - EEP. There's only an epilogue left now! Can you believe it? It feels like I just started this one last week, and now it's almost over. Enormous thanks to My Friend Robynne, who is not only hilarious and insanely talented, but the best beta in the history of betas. I owe her HUGELY. Also, no one seems to have caught it yet, or maybe I'm just being anal, but the title of the last chapter came from the Pink Floyd song Brain Damage, which is often mistakenly called Dark Side of the Moon. Sorry, I was a little distracted when I wrote that last author's note:D ANYway, please review!


	11. Epilogue: Mind Over Matter

The Shadow Proves The Sunshine

"_He's been here since 1811, and in 1813 he went mad, and the change is astonishing. He used to weep, he now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had better see him, for his madness is amusing." - The Count of Monte Cristo_

For all her love of the sea, Mrs. Lovett's stomach does not share her enthusiasm. On the long voyage from London to America, she keeps a bucket by her bedside. Her insides seem to heave with every upward motion of the waves; Mr. Todd finds it ironic that someone who loves the ocean so bloody much becomes alarmingly sick when right in the middle of it.

The injuries Mrs. Lovett sustained from her time in Fogg's Asylum are extensive and Sweeney spends most of the voyage nursing her back into some semblance of health. Before they had even left the dock, he'd turned Mrs. Lovett on her stomach, unbuttoning her dress and stripping away the linen gauze to sponge off her back. Angered by the harsh red lines marring her skin, Sweeney had been so wrapped up in his own rage that he hadn't noticed Mrs. Lovett's discomfort until a quiet whimper issued from her mouth.

Glancing up, he'd watched her squeeze her eyes shut and bite down on her bottom lip, refusing to make another sound. Sweeney had resolved to be a little gentler and save his ire for later, when he wasn't in Mrs. Lovett's company. Looking at the whip marks again, he'd thought once more of how she'd received them - stealing food to keep Johanna from starving. She'd put his daughter above herself, and he will never be able to repay her for that kindness.

He'd waited to bind her ribs until after the pain medication he'd given her took affect. With Mrs. Lovett sufficiently passed out, Sweeney had sent Toby from the room and gone about the task of tightly wrapping linen around her ribs to restrict movement and encourage healing. Peeling away her corset and bloodied , dirt-encrusted dress, he'd tried his best to avert his eyes from the sight of her bare skin.

Now, Sweeney reclines wearily in a chair at the end of Mrs. Lovett's bed, elbow on the arm rest and chin in open palm, his eyes slowly drifting closed. For the past several days, Mrs. Lovett has not done much more than sleep, and the barber has had very little rest for himself. Whether she remains awake or asleep, the tiny baker requires his constant attention. She continually shoves away her blankets in her sleep or sends the pillows elevating her broken foot sliding to the floor. Sweeney has spent more than one night sitting awake listening to her whimper, unable to do anything but dab at her cheeks and forehead with a cool cloth.

Toby remains faithfully at her side, jumping up whenever she needs something, fetching things for Mr. Todd when he requests them and leaving Sweeney to tend to Mrs. Lovett. Even now, the boy is curled up in another chair next to his mother's bed, one hand clutching protectively at hers as he sleeps. The barber fights down the bristling jealousy he feels, frowning in irritation at his own irrational envy.

Thankfully, with Mrs. Lovett more inclined to rest, the woman hasn't found the time to sit up and prod him with questions regarding his behavior toward her in Fogg's Asylum the day he rescued her. No, perhaps that isn't right. Mrs. Lovett wouldn't question him directly, she would most likely drop hints and stare at him through those wide brown eyes until he broke. She would make him want to kiss her again, make him whisper what he feels for her into the tangled curls of her hair. Either way, Sweeney has no doubt that once she feels like her old self again, Mrs. Lovett will demand an explanation for his actions.

Mr. Todd sighs, passing a hand over his tired eyes. The only problem, he thinks, is that he doesn't _have_ an explanation. He only knows that he'd felt an unexpected burst of fierce relief and protectiveness when he'd turned to see the woman he loved curled up on the floor, utterly without hope. He'd _needed_ to kiss her, and no words could ever properly convey why. He cannot tell her that he loves her without giving her some sort of explanation for the change in his cold behavior toward her, can he?

Brow furrowed, Sweeney gazes at Mrs. Lovett's still form, eyes following the steady up and down motion of the blankets as she breathes. The woman is growing on him, the intimacy of caring for her and watching her sleep every night making him even more fond of her. Her importance to him increases with every passing day, and it terrifies him.

He will never be the gentle and kind man he was, but somehow he knows that Mrs. Lovett would never ask it of him. Something tells him that she wouldn't need to know why he loved her, it would only matter to her that he did. He has always seen in her eyes that she would be perfectly content with his one word answers and half-hearted grunts for the rest of her life, if he so desired to spend his with her.

Sweeney scowls, watching the woman use her hand to bat away the blankets covering her and sending them spilling onto the creaking floor of the ship. Grumbling his annoyance, Mr. Todd stands with a grunt, ambling over to her bedside and picking up the blankets. He glances down at her as he arranges them over her prone form, noticing not for the first time the way her lips work quietly while she sleeps; he finds it oddly endearing that she can't seem to keep her mouth shut even when she dreams.

Striding silently back to his chair, Sweeney drapes himself lazily over it and closes his eyes. He may have another five minutes before she pushes her pillows off the bed.

--

_Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead. - Charles Bukowski_

When Mr. Todd begins pacing about the small cabin where the three of them are confined, looking every bit like a caged lion, Toby volunteers to keep Mrs. Lovett company while the barber steps out on deck to get some fresh air. In all honesty, Toby is eager to spend some time alone with his mum.

Mr. Todd is usually the one to be with her, always changing her bandages and piling blankets on her. The barber grows tired of his company pretty easily, though Toby can tell he tries to be patient. So Toby has been spending most of his time lately either asleep in the chair by Mrs. Lovett's bed or out on deck with the sailors, learning to tie knots like the Double Overhand and the Bowline. Now, with Mr. Todd suffering a severe case of cabin fever, Toby finds himself in the position to watch over Mrs. Lovett for once and he takes his job very seriously.

Settling himself into the chair by her bedside, Toby watches Mrs. Lovett sleep, drumming his fingers impatiently on the arm rest. While he understands that she has been through quite the trying ordeal and that in order for her body to heal, it needs lots of rest, the boy is positively itching to speak with her. Sometimes she wakes up, but Toby is never in the room when it happens; Mr. Todd is always the one to hear whatever she has to say before she falls back to sleep. This time, Toby is determined to be by her side when she awakens.

Sighing heavily, he reaches out for the bottle of gin sitting on Mrs. Lovett's bedside table. If he has to wait, then he figures he might as well occupy his time. Unfortunately, with his eyes trained on Mrs. Lovett, he knocks the bottle of gin into the pile of books stacked precariously on the bedside table, sending them crashing to the floor rather noisily.

"Soddin' 'ell," Toby hisses, clapping a hand over his mouth. He grimaces, holding his breath as Mrs. Lovett stirs in her sleep, frowning at the sudden ruckus.

Opening her eyes blearily, sleepy gaze darting about the room, Mrs. Lovett turns her head to the side and focuses her gaze on Toby. She smiles tiredly, looking amused at his frozen stance. "Toby, love," she says, her voice scratchy from disuse. "Come sit with me."

Toby blushes, climbing into bed beside her, arranging the blankets more securely around her. "Sorry for wakin' you, mum," he mumbles. "I was tryin' to be quiet, honest. Bloody books - "

"S'alright love," she interrupts, yawning as she pats his arm. "Much rather talk to you than sleep, anyway."

"Been sleepin' a lot lately," he comments timidly, eyeing her expression with calculating eyes.

Her eyes are open and honest as she fiddles lazily with his hair, combing her fingers through it. Toby closes his eyes, glad to be under her attentions again. "I know, I've been a right layabout, 'aven't I?"

Toby shrugs. "You been through a lot, mum. Don't blame you."

"No," she whispers fondly. "You never would." Her fingers continue to rake through his hair, making him genuinely relaxed and sleepy, but he forces his eyes open to look at her. Mrs. Lovett leans toward him slightly, as though confiding something very important. "But I'm gettin' better, love. Don't you worry about your ol' mum, eh?"

Toby wonders briefly how she'd known he's been worried about her, terrified that her injuries would be too much for her fragile body to handle. He wonders how she'd known he has spent most nights lying awake, wondering if he'd ever see her open her eyes again, ever hear her laugh or feel her fingers in his hair. She always knows what to say to make him feel better, and he's missed it terribly. He nods, burying his face in her shoulder to hide his relieved tears.

Mrs. Lovett laughs softly, placing a kiss to the crown of his head. "Now, what 'ave you been up to, lad? Mr. Todd's been good to you, I 'ope."

Toby nods again, not bothering to remove his face from the crook between her neck and shoulder.

He hears Mrs. Lovett give a soft sigh. "C'mon, love; I'm feelin' tired again. Be a dear and keep me awake?"

Intrigued, Toby lifts his head, blinking away tears. "How d'you want me to do that, mum?"

"Tell me a story," she smiles. "Anythin'. I just want to 'ear your voice."

Tears forgotten, Toby suddenly remembers something very important and he gasps audibly, startling Mrs. Lovett. He cannot believe that he'd actually forgotten this, but Mrs. Lovett's condition has taken over most of his thoughts until now. "Mum! Guess what 'appened while you were gone!"

--

The salt air is strong enough to slip its icy fingers through Sweeney Todd's layers of clothing, chilling him to the very bone. He fights back a shiver as he leans on the railing, staring out at the vast ocean before him. He is eternally grateful for Mrs. Lovett's recovery, however slow it may be, but sitting in that room, day after day, with no room to pace or move about, is enough to drive him mad. With nothing else to occupy his mind, his thoughts continually flit from Mrs. Lovett to Johanna, and their final parting at the docks back in London.

She'd hugged him again, nearly crushing Mrs. Lovett in between them as she did so. He'd finally found it within himself to tentatively wrap his free arm around her small frame - a half-hearted hug, but all he could manage under the circumstances. It was the first time he'd embraced someone since Lucy, and he finds it fitting that their daughter was the first in fifteen years. Johanna had pulled away from him, frowning as she smoothed Mrs. Lovett's hair away from her face.

"Were you ever going to tell me, father?" She'd asked, dark eyes locking with his.

He'd swallowed, clenching his jaw. "Mrs. Lovett had no right - "

Johanna had shaken her head, chin jutted out stubbornly. "Don't blame Mrs. Lovett, it isn't her fault you keep secrets. Besides, she didn't tell me, I figured it out on my own." At Sweeney's furrowed brow, Johanna elaborates, "They drugged her, gave her some awful concoction that made her sick. She was talking nonsense, talking about you. I pieced together the bits that made sense, and she was too weak to protest. Please, don't be angry with her."

Sweeney hadn't been pleased, but he'd nodded, jaw still tight.

Johanna had trailed a gentle finger across Mrs. Lovett's cheek, watching the woman stir in Sweeney arms. "I should like to contact you, after we've settled in. If you don't mind, that is."

Sweeney had forced his voice not to waver, nodding once. "I'd like that," he'd rasped.

Now, he wonders if he should have told her to stay away. He _knows _he should have. Mrs. Lovett had probably told Johanna amusing tales of Benjamin Barker and his gentle kindness, never once mentioning that the new man he'd returned as would never be a proper father for Johanna. How can he ever face his daughter, ever look into her innocent eyes without thinking of the monster he's become, without remembering the family they should have been?

Running a hand through his disheveled hair, Sweeney turns from the ocean in frustration, stalking away from the railing and heading toward the small cabin. At least in that small room there are things to occupy his mind - reading the books on Mrs. Lovett's bedside table, Toby's worried questions, Mrs. Lovett's constant ability to discard blankets and pillows in her sleep.

Opening the cabin door, fully intent on a silent entrance so as not to wake the baker, Sweeney is surprised to find the books scattered on the floor and Mrs. Lovett sitting up in bed with Toby, listening with rapt attention as the boy prattles on enthusiastically. His first instinct is to snap at Toby for waking Mrs. Lovett, but as he hears the topic of their conversation, his expression turns from irritation to disbelief.

"Ya should 'ave seen 'im, mum," Toby is saying, waving his arms about. "I just raised the rollin' pin and _splat_! 'is guts went everywhere!" He sighs, looking proud of himself. " 'e never saw it comin'."

Sweeney stares at them oddly, wondering at their excitement over the death of a single spider, killed weeks ago. However, Mrs. Lovett laughs delightedly, ruffling Toby's hair, and Sweeney cannot deny how comforting it is to see her smiling and looking more like herself. Instead of scolding Toby, Sweeney crosses the room to take up his usual spot at the foot of the bed, deciding to ignore them both instead.

Mrs. Lovett turns to look at him, beaming, but he can still see the exhaustion in her eyes. It will take a while before the physical traces of the asylum disappear, but even some of those will never completely evaporate. She will always have a patchwork of whip marks across her pale back, she will always bear that little scar on her palm from the fragmented piece of glass he'd found buried there when dressing her wounds. But the other scars, the emotional ones...Will she always look so pained in her sleep? Will that haunted look in her eyes ever truly go away?

Sweeney Todd knows what it's like to be imprisoned, locked away from the rest of the world and the ones you love when you've done nothing to deserve it. He knows from experience that some scars will always remain. He only hopes that with Mrs. Lovett, the damage will be purely skin deep.

--

_Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. - Albert Einstein_

The newness of a foreign city has worn off entirely, and the day-to-day monotony of it is getting old very quickly. Unable to move about like she wants to, Nellie Lovett spends her days lounging about with a book or trying to knit. The knitting never goes over well, she doesn't have the patience it requires; the yarn and knitting needles usually get launched to the other side of the room in a fit of irritation after the fifth time she accidentally stabs herself. After hours of doing nothing but study the wallpaper, reading or aiming crumpled up papers at the kitchen sink a whole room away, she starts to wish for the needles, if only to deliberately stab herself.

She longs to stand up and do something, to explore this new and entirely unfamiliar city she's in. She would even be happy to get up and clean if she could. Eleanor cannot stand the dull cycle her life has become. She sits at the window, day after day, watching life continue on without her on the streets below, and suddenly realizes how Johanna had felt all those years she spent confined within Turpin's lavish prison.

On reaching port, they had managed to acquire a two bedroom flat above an alehouse in New York. While it isn't exactly quaint, and the noise from the bar downstairs reaches their rooms at all hours, it's cheap and Sweeney manages to acquire a job bartending during the day. Eleanor can tell that he hates it; he comes upstairs grumbling about brawls, sticky bar tops and infernal noise. However, the job helps them make rent and gives them a place to stay, so she encourages him to keep his razor in his pocket and his sneers to a minimum.

Not unlike Eleanor during the hours he's away, Sweeney has his own routine when he comes upstairs from the tavern, which includes coming through the door with a murderous look on his face, slamming it shut and dropping down onto the sofa with a sigh of repressed rage. Having just returned from the bar and irritably ordering Toby to the grocer's with a list, Sweeney does exactly what she expects, collapsing grumpily onto the battered settee next to her. As is customary, he lets out a long, exasperated sigh and Nellie plays her usual part, wisely staying silent and letting him cool off before attempting to speak.

The daily frustrations of their life in New York are taking their toll on him as well, and she doubts her constant need to be physically moved from room to room helps matters. Mr. Todd comes home from hours of bartending only to carry her about whenever she feels the urge to leave the room. She will sometimes sit stubbornly on the settee for hours, reading the newspaper several times over just so he doesn't have to carry her anywhere.

Nellie sighs, resting her chin in her palm and glowering at her foot, propped up on the table in front of them. The sooner the bloody thing heals, the better. She grows tired of being a nuisance to Mr. Todd, and to poor Toby, who shouldn't have to spend his days forcing her to stay immobile. She'd disobeyed them once and attempted to walk from the bedroom to the kitchen, only to have Sweeney burst in before she'd made it halfway there. He'd been so furious with her that Nellie hasn't dared to try it again.

So she lets Mr. Todd carry her to the kitchen table, the settee, the bedroom. She can't say that she particularly minds having him scoop her up in his arms - it was included in nearly every fantasy she has ever had about him - but she loathes having to depend on anyone. She has spent most of her life as a strong-willed, independent woman, and this new role as a temporary invalid is taking some getting used to.

When Sweeney grumbles under his breath about a measly paycheck, startling Eleanor out of her reverie, she turns to face him. With a clenched jaw and visibly tense shoulders, Mr. Todd is hardly the picture of the ideal bartender. She has always pictured bartenders as friendly, chatty men, willing to lend an ear to their patrons. Sweeney Todd looks as if he would go as far as to choke anyone who so much as dared to ask for more ale.

She tilts her head curiously. "Love, what 'appened to all that money I 'ad 'idden away in the pie shop? Shouldn't we 'ave enough of that to pay rent for a while, so you could find a decent job in the meantime?"

Not bothering to open his eyes, Sweeney grunts,"The crossing from England took a good bit of money, Eleanor."

She stares. "All of it?"

His voice is thick with exasperation, "Had to pay for your rescue, didn't I?"

Eleanor scoots closer to him, careful of her foot, and rests her head on his shoulder. "Just 'ow much did you pay for me, love?" She smirks. "What's the goin' rate for a redhead these days, eh?"

He frowns but says nothing. Not satisfied, she pokes his arm and he opens one eye to regard her lazily. "What?"

She isn't sure what had caused the change in him, but he's much more indulgent now when it comes to her antics. In fact, he's more indulgent about everything concerning her. They have shared the same bed since the day they moved into the flat, and when he kisses her, she can feel that he truly means it. Mr. Todd is still and probably always will be the same gruff man, offering her grunts and raised eyebrows in favor of actual words, but there's something new in his eyes when he looks at her. Eleanor is certain that when she finds him staring at her over dinner at their small kitchen table, that he really sees her, not pale eyes and yellow hair.

She shakes her head and smiles at him, ready to begin the next part of Sweeney's routine after a long day. She leans up to press her lips to his, mouth emitting a happy little sigh. Splaying the fingers of one hand over his shoulder and using the other to rub his chest in soothing circles, Eleanor feels Sweeney shift against her, pulling her into him. His tense muscles relax under her touch, just as they always do, and she thinks wistfully that maybe monotony isn't such a bad thing after all.

--

_I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_

_And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane._

_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

_- Mad Girl's Love Song, Sylvia Plath_

There are shadows all around her. The room is pitch black, but she can still make out the shadows on the wall. All around her, the shrieks and murmurs of the lunatics echo off the walls. Panic overwhelms her as she looks frantically around, lying on the floor of a cell and unable to move. How had she gotten back here? How had they found her?

She wants to scream, but there's a weight on her chest, like someone is trying to crush her beneath their boot, as if she's a mere insect to be squashed. She knows instinctively that the boot belongs to Harlan. _It can't be Harlan. He's dead. _She saw him drop to the ground, bloodied and dead-eyed. Mr. Todd had killed him, she's sure of it.

Unless it was a dream. Maybe she has gone mad, imagining a life she will never have. Of course, that has to be it. In reality, Sweeney Todd would never love her, never want to spend his life with her. She has been here all along, trapped in the asylum, but even worse, trapped inside her own ailing mind. Nothing is what it seems anymore. Are those really the cries of the lunatics, or something else entirely? Are those shadows on the wall her guards, or something far more sinister?

The shrieks reach their crescendo. The wails ring in her ears until it's all she can concentrate on, and she's sure she'll never hear another sound for the rest of her life. She struggles for breath, gasping under the intense weight of Harlan's boot pressing down on her chest. Her eyes fly up to his to beg for mercy, to scream, but instead of Harlan, she finds the warden, glaring down at her with a menacing, contrived grin on his face.

"Thought you could escape, did you, Eleanor Lovett?" He laughs, a terrible, high-pitched sound. "This asylum is a fortress. Once you're here, you never get out."

Eleanor's eyes fly open to stare at the ceiling, her chest - free of Harlan's boot - heaves up and down, desperate for breathe while her heart beats frantically against her rib cage. Trembling, she reaches out in the darkness, her hand coming in contact with the soft sheets and finally Sweeney's arm. Closing her eyes in relief, she puts a hand to her chest and struggles to draw in a breath. _Just a dream..._

Another one.

At first, she'd been too wrapped up in getting well again, and her new relationship with Sweeney to really be concerned with the things she'd seen in Fogg's Asylum. But now, her health is continuing to improve, and having Sweeney Todd sleeping beside her seems like the most natural thing in the world. Things have settled down - the perfect time for the horrors of the madhouse to come creeping back. She doesn't think about it at all during the day, but when she sleeps, when her guard is down, the memories won't leave her alone.

She sighs, bringing a hand to her forehead to wipe at the sweat forming there. Beside her, Sweeney breathes steadily, oblivious to her nightmares. She always tries to keep quiet when she wakes up in the middle of the night like this, certain the warden is looming over her. The last thing she wants is for Sweeney to wake up and find her this way - so far from the strong woman she is during the day. Something about waking up from those dreams in the dark of night, panting, feels too vulnerable for her liking. Eleanor doesn't like being weak, and she certainly doesn't like anyone else to see her that way. She is not Lucy Barker, she will not be driven mad by the horrors of her life.

Unable to shake off the terror of her nightmare, too afraid of falling back into it lest she close her eyes, Eleanor slips carefully from beneath the blankets. Casting her eyes to the other side of the bed, she sees Sweeney frowning deeply in his sleep and filled with compassion, she moves forward and pulls the blankets tighter around him. Leaning down to press a light kiss to his forehead, Eleanor moves quietly from the room, leaving him to what she hopes are dreams far more peaceful than hers.

She keeps one hand on the wall for support as she makes her way very carefully down the small hallway. Her foot still hasn't entirely healed, and Sweeney would no doubt be very angry with her if he knew her to be up and moving about without his help. This hasn't stopped her for the past few weeks; she's been sneaking from their bedroom, plagued with nightmares for nearly two months.

As per usual, she inches her way to the settee. It isn't even theirs; the entire flat had come fully furnished. They can't afford anything new for the time being, and while the furniture is either lovingly worn or in desperate need of replacement, it serves its purpose for the time being.

Sinking gratefully onto the cushions, her back resting against one end, Nellie lets out a tired sigh and props her feet up in front of her. She glances around wearily, hoping to find something to distract her from her thoughts. On the coffee table, next to a stack of books and a bottle of gin, the newspaper lies, creased and folded from frequent readings.

It takes several weeks for news from London to reach America, and they'd arrived just in time to obtain a newspaper relating the details of their escape. An article in the back of the paper had told of a madhouse called Fogg's Asylum, where somehow, the lunatics had obtained the keys from the warden, who'd been mauled to death and locked away in the men's wing. Then, the lunatics had slit the throats of the guards before flooding the streets, leaving the asylum empty but for a few corpses. Only one guard survived, a man named Oscar Cartwright, who'd been sent home for the week without pay, just minutes before the escape.

Eleanor smiles faintly. One of her silly games had ended up saving the life of the only guard who'd treated her with kindness, and even now the thought floods her with relief. She hardly would have been in the right state of mind to ask Sweeney not to kill him. Oscar's corpse would have been lying in those empty corridors as well, and she would have been powerless to stop it.

The newspaper article goes on to say that it will take months, perhaps longer, for the police to round up all the lunatics again. London is in a state of panic, everyone fearing a madman or woman will violate them in the streets. And then, at the very end, there is a small paragraph containing the suspicion that one of the lunatics had broken into the home of a London judge and attacked him with a knife. The man had apparently been skewered beyond recognition, found slumped in his study. Even Mr. Todd had been amused by that - she'd caught the faint trace of a smile on his lips when she'd read it aloud.

A faint creak in the wooden floorboards causes her eyes stray to the hallway, and she listens with baited breath, hoping it's one of the many noises the small flat makes during the night. Toby, the poor thing, needs his rest. He spends way too much time looking after her, and she hates to worry him with her restlessness. Sweeney needs his sleep as well, toiling away downstairs, constantly on his feet so they can make rent.

Unfortunately, her careful trek to the parlor has woken someone, because she hears the unmistakable squeak of one of the bedroom doors opening, and then the sound of bare feet padding down the hall. Sweeney Todd appears in the doorway, frowning sleepily at her in the faint light of the gas lamp, obviously displeased that she'd walked all the way to the parlor without his assistance. She smiles in return, cradling her cheek in her open palm.

"Nightmares," she says quietly, by way of explanation.

Sweeney looks her over closely, brow creased. She tries not to squirm beneath his gaze, still not quite accustomed to his full attention being solely on her. His gaze is piercing, and she finds herself shying away from it, her defenses not quite up to staring him down like she usually does. Without a word, Sweeney moves to the kitchen and pulls two glasses from a cabinet. He makes his way to the settee, taking up the bottle of gin on the table.

Lifting her legs carefully to rest on his lap, he settles in next to her and pours a generous amount into a glass, handing it to her before pouring a small measure into his own. She sips from her glass gratefully, giving a soft hum at the familiar warmth of the clear liquid sliding down her throat. They sit in contemplative silence for a while; Sweeney's hand rests on her knee and he seems to be in very deep thought about something. His eyes give him away, she knows by his far-off expression that he isn't seeing her or the tiny parlor right now. It doesn't bother her this time, and Mrs. Lovett shuts her eyes, content to wait for him to come back to her. For the first time, Eleanor isn't the one to disrupt the quiet atmosphere.

"You'll never forget."

The rumble of Sweeney's voice several minutes later sends her eyes flying open again, and she stares at him, waiting for him to elaborate. He sighs. "What happened in that hell hole. You'll never forget it."

Eleanor frowns, peering into her glass. "Thanks for the comfort, love. What would I do without you?" She rolls her eyes.

He shrugs. "Would you rather I lied to you?"

Biting her lip, thinking of her own lie, Eleanor says, "No, I s'pose not." It doesn't seem fair that such a brief time in her life will cause her grief for the rest of her days. She has lived through so much - poverty, lost love, the death of her husband. But nine days in Fogg's Asylum and she's scarred for life. "The nightmares...do they ever stop?"

Her words are so quiet that she isn't sure Sweeney has heard her, but after taking a long draught from his own drink and grimacing, he casts her a sideways glance. "No." He stops, frowning in thought. "Mine never have."

The words aren't a comfort, but she would never expect reassuring promises from Sweeney Todd. "What do you dream about?" She whispers, curling her fingers tightly around her glass and shifting closer to lean into him, her head finding the crook between his neck and shoulder.

He stiffens beneath her, and for a long moment, she thinks he won't answer. His voice, low and hardened, comes as a surprise. "The dark, mostly," he confides quietly. "The lash of the whip." She feels his lips brush against the crown of her head and the action is more soothing than anything he could ever say to her. "We all have nightmares, Eleanor."

Of course, he's right. Even her little Toby has come to her, seeking the comforting arms of his mother after another dream about the workhouse, or his former master Pirelli. She can't even begin to count the number of times she had run to his tiny bedroom on Fleet Street, sure that he was being murdered in his bed, only to find him in the throes of a nightmare. He'd always be so sure he was back in the workhouse, it would take Nellie several moments to convince him otherwise.

_We all have nightmares. _

What matters, she supposes, is how she deals with them.

Eleanor sighs into the skin of Sweeney's neck. "Bloody good at this, y'know," she says sleepily and he only murmurs '_mmm_' in response. Taking the glass from her hands, he sets it on the table along with his own. He turns his attention to her, drawing her into his arms and standing up as if he'd merely picked up a limp blanket to carry about. She smiles, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Takin' me to bed, are you?"

He doesn't answer, but his arms tighten around her just a little and it's good enough for her. As he walks silently toward their bedroom, her eyes flutter shut, and breathing in his scent, she feels much better. There will always be nights when she will wake up in a cold sweat, sure that she is back in the asylum, in her dirty cell, with the warden standing over her. But she takes comfort in the knowledge that when she does, Sweeney will be there to carry her back to bed.

--

_And those who were seen dancing were thought to be mad by those who could not hear the music. -Frederick Neitzsche _

In the last several months, Mrs. Lovett has noticed that Sweeney Todd looks almost innocent when he sleeps, like a little boy with not a care in the world. The contrast between the way he sleeps and the way he lives his life is startling. Eleanor finds it fascinating to watch him wake up, that peaceful expression immediately morphing into his usual scowl.

"Letter for you, mum."

Mrs. Lovett jumps, dropping the flimsy poetry book in her hand. She looks quickly away from studying Sweeney's sleeping face, watching Toby cross the room with a single envelope. He bends down to pick up her book as well and she takes both from him when he reaches her. "Where're you off to?" She asks, eyeing the cap he has shoved over his brow.

Toby shrugs. "Couple of the lads from down the block invited me to go to the park with 'em. Can I go?"

Pursing her lips, Eleanor nods. She doesn't like the idea of Toby wandering around in this strange city with people she's never met, but he's been cooped up with her for days on end. He's a young boy and he needs friends. "Back before dark, you 'ear?" She calls as he practically sprints to the door.

"Sure thing, mum!" He reassures her, and the door slams shut behind him.

The noise seems to have woken Mr. Todd, who stirs next to her on the settee. He'd been reading the newspaper, having carried her from the kitchen to the parlor. She could hobble about well enough now all on her own - slowly, but certainly without falling flat on her face. Sweeney insists that she's still entirely too weak to spend much time on her own legs, grumbling that he would rather carry her around a while longer than have her injure herself and be forced into her servitude for many more months. However, Eleanor has a sneaking suspicion that he's becoming rather fond of carrying her, though she would never say so out loud.

Blinking sleepily and turning bleary eyes to Eleanor, Sweeney nods to the envelope in her lap. "Johanna?"

Mr. Todd's daughter has gotten into the habit of sending them frequent letters, inquiring after their health and telling them about the little town she and Anthony have settled into on the coast of a Canadian province. Sometimes Johanna mentions something pertaining to the asylum, and more often than not, it gets Nellie into trouble.

Just last week, Johanna had mentioned the gin Eleanor had given her; apparently Johanna keeps a stock of it in the house now for herself and Anthony, all thanks to Nellie. Sweeney had flown into a fit of rage that Nellie doesn't see often these days, railing about her lower class habits influencing his virtuous little lamb. _"You gave my daughter gin?!"_Oh, they'd had quite the row about that little incident, and Nellie had secretly written to Johanna afterwards, asking her to keep those little details between themselves.

Eleanor's influence over the girl perturbs Sweeney, and she can't help but think it's because her relationship with Johanna is very much like the one Lucy never got the chance to have with her. Perhaps he knows Lucy would teach their daughter things too, if she were alive, or rather, in her right mind - proper things like cross-stitching and how to speak French. Eleanor bristles at the thought, satisfying herself with the knowledge that Johanna hates cross-stitch.

She writes the girl a letter at least once a week, and Mr. Todd still hasn't taken to the nickname she uses to address Johanna. Her letters always begin, "_Jo, love_" or "_My little Jo_". Nellie smiles to herself, thinking of the letter Sweeney had picked up a month ago, scowling as he'd said, "My daughter is not a boy, Eleanor!" It didn't stop her from using the nickname, and though he still frowns whenever he hears it, he has stopped vocalizing his disapproval.

Glancing up at him now, he doesn't seem annoyed with her, only at being woken up. She turns the envelope over in her hands. "This isn't Johanna's 'andwritin'. Does anyone else know we're 'ere, love?"

He shakes his head, taking it from her to examine the hastily written scrawl. "S'not Anthony's either."

Eleanor bites her lip. "Should I open it? What if the coppers found us and want to drag me back? What if - "

Sweeney makes a small noise of exasperation. "It's already here, what difference does it make?"

Eleanor frowns at his flippant response but takes the envelope from him, tearing it open to reveal a single sheet of parchment. Scanning it quickly, fully aware of Sweeney's gaze on her, Eleanor smiles brightly. "Ah, no need to worry, dearie. It's from the girls!" He stares and she elaborates, "Y'now - Tilda, Claribel, Emmy...the girls."

Sweeney's eyes narrow. "How'd they find us?"

Despite knowing he would rather not hear the entire contents of the letter, Eleanor begins to read it out loud to him, ignoring his pained sigh.

"_Eleanor lovey,_

_Bet you didn't think we'd get away, did you? Well we did, you naughty thing! Hiding out in the country, we are. Bet you're also wondering how the bloody hell we found you, right? When we were still in the asylum, the young man Anthony was kind enough to tell us where you were headed and we simply had to drop you a note."_

Eleanor stops reading, giving a derisive snort. "Well, guess the sailor's good for somethin' after all." The corner of Sweeney's mouth quirks, the only sign of his amusement, and she continues reading her letter.

"_Life outside the asylum is quite different than we remember; it feels lovely to be in polite society again. Although we're mostly keeping a low profile, it's heavenly to sleep in a bed, instead of on the floor or one of those filthy cots. We've been eating small meals, but anything is better than stale bread and sewer water. Oh! You'll never believe it, lovey, but we actually played a game of cards today! And not invisible cards, an __actual __card game, with real cards and everything! It was quite novel. You'd be so proud of us. We hope you're doing well, the warden did quite a number on you. By the way, did you read about him in the paper? Bloody unrecognizable when the coppers found him! Tilda, especially, was terribly amused by the whole ordeal. _

_We love you darling, write soon!_

_Claribel, Tilda and Emmy"_

Eleanor sighs happily, clutching the letter to her as she glances at Sweeney. "Such lovely girls," she says. "We should 'ave them come 'ere, love! When things settle down." She smiles. "They'd be delighted with Toby..." She doesn't notice Sweeney's furrowed brow until he snatches the letter from her grasp. "Oi, be careful with that!"

He ignores her, eyes scrunched up as he reads over the letter rapidly, his lips moving as he does so. Silence stretches between them as Eleanor watches him closely, wondering at his odd behavior. She's on the verge of asking what on earth has gotten into him when he glances up at her, frowning deeply. "What the bloody hell is invisible cards?"

--

_I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched - Edgar Allen Poe_

The west coast of British Columbia is more beautiful than Eleanor had ever imagined. The day isn't a sunny one, and from the damp feel of the air itself, she imagines that it must rain quite a bit. The scenery is breathtaking; everywhere she looks is thriving with plant life, the loveliest green she has ever laid eyes on. In the distance, surrounded by rainforests filled with towering coniferous trees and moss-covered ferns, the outline of majestic mountains can be seen through the mist, looming over everything else. The atmosphere could almost be described as magical; there is an aura that seems to exude from every tree, every mountain.

As she walks along the shore, arm looped through Mr. Todd's, Eleanor gets the occasional chill from sight of the eerie, but strangely beautiful landscape. It nearly makes her want to cry, being close to the sea she's longed to behold again since she was a small child. She feels as though she has come home after a long absence, to find the familiarity of the sea waiting for her, as if she'd never left. Of course, the coast of British Columbia is a world apart from the shores of England, where she'd visited her Aunt Nettie, but the principle still applies.

She glances at Sweeney, trying to hide her excited smile. "Isn't this smashing?" She asks, pulling at his sleeve. He turns his head to look at her and his expression isn't much different than it usually is, but she doesn't take offense. "It's much better than New York, don't you think? New York is too much like London."

To this, Sweeney is forced to nod his agreement. They both know that anywhere is better than the filthy streets of New York, except perhaps London.

Encouraged, she continues cheerfully, "Wouldn't you like to be somewhere like this, love? It's so peaceful, and we'd be near Johanna all the time."

Sweeney stares straight ahead of them, but his mouth twitches just enough to be noticeable. "You only want to be near the ocean, pet."

Eleanor frowns petulantly. "That is entirely untrue, Mr. Todd. I adore Johanna and I want to be near

'er just as much as you do." She sniffs, pretending to be most offended by his suggestion. "The fact that she lives by the sea is merely a 'appy coincidence. I resent your implication that I 'ave ulterior motives."

He sighs, obviously tired of having this conversation - she has been bringing the subject up at every plausible opportunity. "And how would we make a living here, Eleanor?" He asks for the hundredth time, his arm slipping from hers and his hand finding the back of her neck to draw her closer into him.

She shivers at his touch, and it takes her a moment to form a proper response. "Well, Johanna says there's a lit'le shop for rent on the main street in town. I could open up a business there with the money we've been savin' up." Nellie glances at him to see whether or not he approves, but his expression is unchanging. "I was thinkin' I'd like to make desserts. Cookies, chocolates, that sort of thing."

Her argument is much better formed than the last one, thanks to a late night talk she'd had with Toby on the train while Mr. Todd had slept. She and Toby are both desperate to get out of New York, and they'd plotted together on the train until the wee hours of the morning. Between the two of them, Sweeney will only be able to resist for so long.

Surprised by her practical response, Sweeney scowls. "And what would I do?" He asks finally.

Nellie sighs. This is where she and Toby had gotten stuck. "Well, I'm not sure yet, love. But give me time, I'll think of somethin'."

He nods, smirking. "Get back to me then, pet."

They lapse into silence for a while, and Eleanor gives up on her scheming for the moment, content to walk with Sweeney and watch Toby scurry ahead of them, letting the waves lap at his ankles. On the train, Toby had mostly kept her company; Sweeney has been entirely preoccupied with meeting his daughter for the second time. He has been unusually quiet for the past several days. In all honesty, he does attempt to make conversation with her, and she even prides herself on the times she has been able to make him actually laugh, but lately, Johanna has taken up his thoughts again.

She'd thought he would be angry with her for telling Johanna who her real father is, but Sweeney has never accused her of anything, never raised his voice over the subject. Secretly, she thinks he's grateful that he doesn't have to do that part himself.

"She's goin' to adore you, love," she says quietly, resting her head against his shoulder. She watches Toby, several yards ahead of them, bend down to examine a crab in the surf. "She's told me a 'undred times over in 'er letters that she can't wait to speak with you." Nellie frowns her disapproval. "And from what I gather, your last meetin' was so bloody rushed."

Sweeney grunts, "It's difficult to have a conversation in the middle of an escape, Eleanor." He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, secretly making sure that she is still handling the rather long walk. Her cheeks are flushed from the exertion, but otherwise, she looks completely healthy. She's been wearing that ridiculous grin for days, at the mere prospect of the seaside.

He had known, when Johanna had written of her new residence with Anthony, that Eleanor would insist on a visit as soon as she was able to walk about on her own again. As much as the thought of seeing his daughter again makes his stomach turn over, having the petite woman well enough to travel had been reason enough to look forward to a trip to the coast. His fondness for Eleanor hasn't receded, only growing stronger with every passing day. They're slowly learning to accommodate each other - him growing to trust and confide in her, and Eleanor learning when he needs to be left on his own. Of course, her part is a little easier, considering how little time he spends by himself in recent days.

Knowing all too well that she could be hiding her pain from him, Sweeney continues to study her quietly, watching for any sign of her weariness. She doesn't seem tired in the least, a bounce in her light step as they trudge through the sand. Her dress, a becoming shade of pink and trimmed with lace, makes her look entirely too cheery and bright to be standing next to him in his dull shades of black and grey. He feels as though his very presence taints the lovely picture she makes.

"Alright?" He asks, unable to keep the softness out of his voice when he speaks. "I could carry you the rest of the way."

She turns to smile up at him, her brown eyes dancing. The haunted look is no longer present, and for that, he's grateful. "Nonsense, love. Feel right as rain, I do."

When they reach the spot Anthony had detailed in his letter, Sweeney helps Eleanor climb the embankment, Toby scampering up it ahead of them. Suddenly they're standing on a cobbled street, directly across from the shoreline. It's quaint little lane of neatly kept houses facing the ocean. Eleanor nearly swoons, leaning against Sweeney as they stare at the pretty houses lining the street and he wonders how he'll ever get her to leave and come back to New York with him.

Sweeney nods toward the honey-colored, two story home. Surrounded by trees, it sits charmingly inside a little, waist high garden gate. The grass is a lush green, and a circular path outlines a small gathering of red wildflowers, eventually leading up to the front door. "That's the one."

He hears Eleanor's breath leave her as she clutches onto his arm, and Toby lets out a low whistle. "Blimey," they whisper together.

Sweeney nearly rolls his eyes, taking Eleanor by the arm and leading her toward the house, leaving a gawking Toby to follow after them.

--

_The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in the ranks of the insane. - Marcus Aurelius_

Life by the sea suits Eleanor and her little family quite admirably, if the scene before her is any indication. It had rained earlier in the morning, but she had ushered Anthony and Toby outside the moment it stopped. The clouds overhead are still heavy and grey, and the grass is limp with raindrops, but they sit on the porch together, not caring in the slightest about the damp. The three of them perch on the steps, watching Sweeney and Johanna cross the lane to stand on the embankment.

Johanna has her arm looped through her father's, and they gaze out at the ocean, watching the crashing waves together. They're talking in low murmurs, as they're often found doing lately, in their own little world that excludes everyone else. Johanna says something and smiles, obviously pleased with herself. Nellie watches Sweeney look at his daughter, a glint in his eye that she is only just becoming familiar with.

Every now and then, his gaze flits back to her on the porch, as if he doesn't dare takes his eyes off her any longer than necessary. Eleanor wonders if he'll ever let go of the fear of his loved ones being snatched away from him, though he has every right to be so protective. When his eyes land on her again, she offers him a grin and a wink, waving. He only smirks, turning his attention back to Johanna.

Sweeney isn't a changed man since his revenge, since he came into her bed. He doesn't very often grin outright, he still sighs whenever he thinks she's talking too much. He will never be Benjamin Barker, but then, she's quite sure she doesn't want him to be. However, he doesn't scowl as frequently, his razors are in a closed box, deep in a dresser drawer, and he is less apt to be found brooding, more often lingering near her.

She hears a heavy sigh from next to her and turns to find Toby staring glumly out into the yard. "What's the matter, love?"

He shrugs. "There's nothin' to do, mum. I'd fancy goin' into town, but it looks like it's goin' to start rainin' again any minute."

Nellie smiles; curing boredom has become her specialty between spending day after day in an asylum, or confined to her own bed. "I propose a game," she says, and the words bring her back to a crowded cell, three redheads staring eagerly at her, waiting for instruction. She shakes the memories off, watching Toby perk up immediately.

"Like what?" He asks, brow furrowed.

"Cards," she says innocently, amused when Toby's face falls.

"Oh," he says with another dramatic exhalation.

Anthony begins to stand up, heading toward the door. "Should I get a pack of cards?"

Eleanor shakes her head emphatically. "Certainly not, Anthony. What on earth would we need those for?"

Toby's expression slowly turns from disappointment to one of interest. "How're we gonna play cards without cards, mum?"

Laughing, she ruffles Toby's hair. "Oh, you'd be surprised what you can do without anythin' at all."

The game commences, with Nellie teaching them as they play. Toby catches on rather quickly, but as Anthony lays down a three and a five, still looking very befuddled, Eleanor shares an amused smile with her son. She lays her cards out in front of her, her grin smug. "Eighteen."

Toby's laugh is infectious and she finds herself smiling along with him even as he puts down his own hand and says, "Twenty-one!"

Anthony runs a hand through his hair, staring at the empty space between them, where the cards supposedly lay. "I just don't understand," he mutters to himself.

Toby snorts, turning to Nellie. "Where'd you learn to do this, mum?"

Sighing, Eleanor leans against the porch railing and shifts her gaze across the lane again, only to find Sweeney already staring back at her. She smiles, subconsciously reaching out for Toby's hand as she begins her tale. "Well dearie, it goes like this..."

--

'_But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked._

'_Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad._

'_How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice._

'_You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'_

_

* * *

_A/N - And....curtain. Haha OK, that's it for this. Just to be clear though, I own none of the quotes above. I just borrowed them because they worked so well. And you all seriously need to check out some images of the coast of British Columbia, it's completely gorgeous. Huge, major, tremendous thanks goes to Robynne for helping me narrow down the many places Sweeney and Nellie could have ended up, and for being such a fantastic beta. She has been incredibly patient with me during this whole process, and without all of her fabulous ideas and constructive criticism, I would be utterly lost. Or at least, a very bad writer. For those of you who were asking I just want to say that I will most definitely be writing more Sweeney fics. I've got a couple of ideas that I'm working on and that I'm really excited about. So keep an eye out for those:D Please review!


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